In the Image of Perfection
by AelysAlthea
Summary: Harry was at a loss, but it wasn't as though he could let it show. That wasn't what a Saviour did, after all. But loss entailed the need for direction. When a helping hand was offered, pointing him in just one such direction he clutched it like a drowning man. It wasn't a path he'd expected to be set upon, nor one he understood, but what more could he do?... (FULL SUMMARY WITHIN)
1. Chapter 1

**Summary** : Harry was at a loss, but it wasn't as though he could let it show. That wasn't what a Saviour did, after all. But loss entailed the need for direction. When a helping hand was offered, pointing him in just one such direction he clutched it like a drowning man. It wasn't a path he'd expected to be set upon, nor one he understood, but what more could he do?

Two years later after the war, and Draco Malfoy is relieved of his sentence. But doing his time is only half the battle. When tossed his own rope, an offering dangled from an unexpected direction, Draco takes it as the only option rationally viable. He hadn't anticipated who he'd meet on the other end of that rope, however, and that - that changed things. Especially when it was Harry Potter.

They always did have a way of bumping into one another. Fate, as it were, seemed intent upon ensuring that, if nothing else.

 **Rating** : M

 **Tags** : Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy; Post-Canon Era; Not Epilogue Complaint; Post-War; Long Fic; Slow Burn; Moving on; Modelling; Photography; Probably a bit of OOC-ness; Eventual Explicit Content; Sexual References; Implied Dubious Consent; References to Drug Use; The Dark Side of the Industry

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

The room was unremarkable. Once, Harry supposed that 'unremarkable' would have had him shifting uncomfortably in his skin, shuffling his feet and perching on the very edge of his seat for fear of somehow dirtying the fabric beneath him. Everything about such rooms, from the sleek lines of the mantelpiece, the crackling fire in the grate, the deceptively comfortable couches, and even the intricate rug that seemed to all but swallow up his shoes with its lushness – all of it was extravagant.

Harry wasn't used to extravagance. He'd lived without for most of his life, with even Hogwarts' particular brand of grandeur being distinctly less confronting. Such rooms, though - they were a little breath-taking, a little overwhelming. He didn't think he particularly liked it. Not at all. It made him feel somehow... small.

At that moment, however, the refinement of the room barely registered to him. It was a little difficult to maintain such awe when, for the past months, Harry had felt as though he were simply rolling from one such room to the next. Even the position of the glass cup on the heavy wooden table before him, the surface polished to a shine, was almost identical to the last. He settled back in the comfortable couch – the fabric was red this time, and distinctly reminiscent of Gryffindor colours as so much of the upholstery in those rooms seemed to be – and with blank detachedness watched the chaos that swirled around the room.

There were cameramen. There were directors, with headgear hooked into their ears that were reminiscent but not identical to their Muggle counterparts. There were attendants aplenty - a woman with a clipboard, waving a pen as she strode across the room, a man adjusting the umbrella-shaped stand that would glare a fierce light in Harry's direction when the time was right. Another fiddled with a tripod, adjusting nobs with a frown upon his face, and everywhere, _everywhere_ , people hastened as though they were running late. As though every second was precious and they were already pressed for time.

Elbow propped onto the arm of the couch, his chin atop his palm, Harry watched. He observed it all as he had countless times before, and he couldn't help but wonder. So much fuss. So much fuss and bother, and for what? To hear his story? To ask questions of him as so may reporters and interviewers had before only with words slightly different and biases slightly more skewed? It was all terribly tedious. Without the discomfort of nervousness and unfamiliarity that had managed to fade over time, Harry was growing sorely tired of the proceedings.

He was watching without really seeing as a middle aged woman with frazzled curls scolded another that had to be half her age when a throat cleared at his side. Blinking, Harry straightened slightly and glanced over his shoulder.

A woman stood behind the couch, her hand resting casually on the headrest. Her nails were perfectly manicured, but subtly so, almost as though it were happenstance that found her fingers so perfectly adorned. Not so subtle was her beaming smile, the unfurling of her wide lips, and the brightness of her eyes that Harry had seen so many times before.

Lifting one perfectly groomed hand, the woman fluttered her fingers in a wave. "Hello, Mr. Potter. You're in the studio a little early."

Harry recognised her. He knew her smile – that smile of lips just a little too wide to be classically attractive – and he knew the arch of her eyebrows, too unmoving to be anything but pencilled on, if professionally so. He even recognised the customary linked chain that fell down the neck of her blouse to hang near her navel, the little frame of a caged bluebird pendant at the very bottom. Harry had learnt that reporters often clung to a particular style, to a noticeable feature, to a specific manner of presenting themselves, even, to make themselves more memorable. This was simply Gertrude Hitchcock's version.

Nodding, offering a small smile in return, Harry lifted his chin from his hand turned in his seat towards her. "Yeah, well, I've never really enjoyed waiting in the dressing rooms. I guess you could say I'm not a particularly patient person for this kind of thing."

Gertrude laughed, a low, musical sound that seemed about as sincere yet masterfully concealed as her eyebrows. Skirting Harry's chair, she paused at his side and spared a glance to the frenzy raging throughout the better half of the room. "It's always a bit of a production, isn't it?" she said conversationally.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose. I don't know all that much about the process, but I reckon it'd have to be pretty crazy trying to sort it all out."

"Oh, undoubtedly," Gertrude said, beaming down at Harry once more. "I'm never so happy to be one of the leading stars of the show as when I have to watch others at work."

Harry offered her another tokenistic smile in return. This kind of small talk - he hated it. He'd always hated it, had never seen the need for speaking when there was nothing important or enjoyment to talk about, and that dislike hadn't faded over time as he'd become desensitised to the rest of the frivolous proceedings. If anything, he thought his distaste had grown with frequent exposure. The only difference was that he was more adept at reciprocating in kind.

Harry had become rather practiced at pretending. He'd had never been able to do that, once. Not before... everything. The war had brought with it changes in ways Harry hadn't even known existed.

"I feel almost guilty, making such a huge job for them all," he said with a little laugh of his own. He knew it sounded sufficiently amused; not overly so, but enough. He'd had enough practice with that of late, too.

"Oh, never you mind that," Gertrude said. "You'll earn your keep soon enough. In fact," raising a hand, she jangled the collection of bangles adorning her arm until she flicked one around to reveal a watch face. "We have about ten more minutes by my count."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"As am I!"

She was too enthusiastic, but Harry supposed that was only to be expected. The reporters and interviewers were all the same; they tried to make nice, to be friendly, and all in the name of slipping under Harry's skin when the time was ripe in an attempt to drag forth the tantalising little bits of information that he hadn't revealed yet "surely kept personal and out of the public eye", if the papers and wealth of magazine articles were to be believed. He was used to it. He'd fallen prey to them too many times, had slipped up unwittingly, to not keep a close watch on his tongue. He was –

"I don't suppose you'd mind if I sit down, would you?"

Snapping his attention back to the moment, Harry stared up at Gertrude's bright face for a moment. he didn't really want or need her company, but he shrugged anyway. "Be my guest. This show is more yours than it is mine."

"Of course," Gertrude said with another chuckle, stepping towards and sinking into the seat opposite Harry's. "But you're the guest, and an honoured one at that. You're the linchpin."

Her smile when she settled herself, crossing her legs and regarding him with a slight tilt of her head, demanded a reply in kind. Harry pasted his own upon his face accordingly before drawing his gaze back towards the backstage workers. The man with the light had decided to readjust the height of the umbrella structure just a little, which was interesting only insofar as it was something to look at.

"You don't like that, do you?"

Harry glanced back towards Gertrude obligingly. "What?"

Surprisingly, her smile had faded slightly. It was still there, but it was edged with a strangely conspiratorial touch. Her leg jiggled a little as she considered him. "I've watched and read all of your interviews, you know," she said. "There's a bit of a common theme between them, or so I've found."

Adopting his own degree of casualness, Harry mirrored her crossed legs. "You've done your research, then?"

"Only as every self-respecting interviewer would – although I daresay there's barely a witch or wizard in all of Britain who can claim they don't keep up with each and every one of your new stories.

Smothering the urge to pull a face, Harry shrugged again. "I'm flattered."

"No," Gertrude said. "You're not."

Her leg stilled from its jiggling, and Harry felt himself freeze along with it. As Gertrude stared at him, her gaze intent and abruptly absent of the bright bubbliness that Harry had beheld from so many interviewers, he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

 _Oh. So this woman isn't one of the stupid ones._

He didn't let the thought show, let alone slip through his lips. Maintaining his smile, Harry tipped his own head to mirror Gertrude's considering tilt. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," Gertrude said slowly, her voice lowering with an intimacy suggestive of privacy rather than an audience barely a handful of steps away, "that I've watched you, Mr. Potter. I think I understand you just a little better than most."

"Please, call me Harry," Harry said, trying and failing to smoother his discomfort.

Gertrude nodded. "Alright then, Harry. Am I wrong?"

Harry knew the techniques. He knew the prodding questions and had learnt how to peer beneath their superficiality to spy the booby traps hidden beneath, planted to trip his tongue into revealing more of himself than he'd ever wanted to share. He knew the habit of maintaining eye contact, of an unwavering smile, of body language – leaning forwards, copying gestures, the deliberate twitch of facial features – and he'd come to recognise more than a few in an instant of their flickering existence. It was necessary, just as it was necessary to dodge around the silent questions as often as the blatant ones.

Harry couldn't afford another incident. Not like those that had come before it. The explosion that had erupted after he'd accidentally let slip that he wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts was one such instance that still resurfaced almost every interview, despite the school year already beginning once more. "What will this mean for the Wizarding world, for the education system, for his comrades-of-war that will be attending without him?" The headlines had been in bold and screaming for attention - though his or the rest of the world's, Harry wasn't quite sure. Maybe both.

But that wasn't as bad as the disaster that arose when the prying attempts of an interviewer had discovered that he and Ginny were no longer dating. "We're still definitely friends, and maybe we could have been something more if we'd tried, but… we're headed in different directions. And Ginny has a career ahead of her, so –"

More explosions. More exclamations. More headlines printed in bold capitalisation. Ginny received Howler after Howler, accusing her of 'driving Harry away', the papers were rife with accusations that she was 'putting her love life on the line for her career' and demanding to know 'how could she do this to the Saviour Harry Potter?' It was as though his words had been spoken in misery and regret rather than tinged with the fondness that was the truth of their persisting friendship.

The explosion when he'd slipped up about his death. The calamity about the accidental revelation of Voldemort's Horcruxes. About reconsidering joining the Aurors, or hunting down any remaining Death Eaters, or joining the Ministry as the representative of the people that he already was.

Harry had learnt from experience. He'd learnt that it was necessary to dance and dodge his way through every interview, every attack from the paparazzi with their vehement questions flung his way. He'd learnt to keep an eye on any public room he attended, to be wary of eavesdroppers, because more than one story had been snatched unwittingly from him for such carelessness.

Harry had learnt. In barely five months, he'd learnt of a whole new world he hadn't known existed, let alone considered himself to be a part of. Interviewers like Gertrude were just one more player in the elaborate stage show.

Or, as it happened, not exactly like Gertrude. She seemed just a little atypical in her approach. Her prying was… different.

With her wide lips and intent stare, Gertrude was harder to read than most. Harry didn't consider himself an expert, but following exposure to rigorous interviewing, being chased by paparazzi, and abusing his skills of Apparition until he thought he'd be able to do it in his sleep, he thought he'd grown accomplished.

Gertrude, though – she was an expert. Clearly.

"I suppose you're right," Harry finally replied with a rueful little laugh. Feigned, because he could manage that, knew when to use it, why to use it, how useful it was to laugh when he didn't particularly want to. His voice dropped a little so that it was nearly lost beneath the barking commands of the stage directors, the shouts of the cameramen, the buzzing exchanges of the attendants. "I'm not really partial to flattery."

"Or to being treated like an honoured guest," Gertrude said, nodding knowingly. Her smile shifted distinctly in a way that Harry couldn't quite pinpoint the meaning of, and when she leant forwards in her seat, her intensity felt just a little different to what Harry was used to too. No flamboyance. No flirtatiousness. No effort to appear open and friendly. If anything, the gesture seemed somehow…

Conspiratorial. Just like Gertrude's smile.

"I've been watching you," Gertrude said once more. "And trust me, I mean in less of a stalking and more of an intensely curious manner."

"Aren't they practically the same thing?" Harry asked. He fought the urge to shift in his seat, a telling sign of his own discomfort.

"Not in the least," Gertrude said, shaking her head. "In more of a, ah… beneficial way."

"Beneficial?"

"Exactly."

"Beneficial to who?"

That smile, knowing and speaking a thousand silent words, widened further. "You're not nearly as oblivious as many of the gossip magazines would have the world believe."

Harry couldn't help but sink backwards a little into his seat. He abruptly wished that he weren't quite so far away from the crewmen. "Thank you?" he said warily.

"You're welcome. I've thought as much for some time, now. Do you know what else I've realised?"

 _I don't want to know, but I bet you'll tell me._ It was a sincere struggle to withhold from sinking further into his seat. A flicker of something that felt almost like anger sparked within Harry, but it died just as quickly beneath the familiar weight of resignation. Weeks of interviews and the weariness of constant attentiveness and attention in return had long ago frazzled Harry's nerves in a remarkably different manner to how they'd been in the war. To use anger as a shield, or even as a weapon, was nigh impossible to manage.

"What's that?" he said flatly instead.

Gertrude waited a beat. Both elbow's propped upon the arms of her chair, she delicately steepled her fingers. "I've realised that you're a little lost, aren't you, Harry?"

Had Harry not been frozen before, he would have stilled into the semblance of a statue. As it was, he found himself almost unable to breathe. He wanted to dart a glance towards the crewman, towards one of the directors, one of his managers, who could surely diffuse the unexpected confrontation with a woman who seemed nothing if not a shark on the prowl, trailing a bloody scent. But he couldn't. He couldn't look away from Gertrude's dark, intelligent eyes.

She was perceptive, that much was apparent. It always stung a little to have the truth so blatantly and unexpectedly exposed.

Swallowing was a struggle and didn't quite manage to clear Harry's throat for his reply. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"Aren't you?" Gertrude's voice was a comfortable hum. "You mean that you don't feel like a dingy that has been cut loose from a pier?"

"I…" _Yes._

"You don't feel as though you have no direction? As though you don't know what to do with yourself at the end of it all?"

"What do you...?" _I don't. I don't have any bloody idea._

"You doesn't feel like you're a little like a paper boat sailing down a river, just one splash away from sinking beneath the waves?"

Harry swallowed again. The buzz of voices hummed in his ears, a hitched clatter of noise that suggested shooting was minutes away, but he couldn't tear himself away from Gertrude's stare. He could barely blink himself. Facing a Death Eater was one thing, and it was terrifying. Facing Voldemort was another entirely, and that had been a whole new level of terror. The deaths of the war had been fear-inducing for different reasons, and the chaos that had gripped the Wizarding world before Kingsley Shacklebolt became the new Minister for Magic was overwhelming, and stressful, and dizzying. The interviews, the paparazzi, the questions and praise and congratulations…

Each were a different level of terror, but none were quite the same as how Harry felt in the face of the truth that Gertrude presented. Not how he felt when he was…

Lost.

After all, what was the purpose of a Saviour after the world had already been saved?

With a struggle, Harry dropped his gaze to where he hadn't even realised his hands clutched one another. His knuckles had turned white, fingers shaking slightly, and no amount of mental scolding seemed capable of making them stop. "I…" he attempted.

"You don't have to explain your," Gertrude said. She straightened, lowering her own hands to her lap, but only leant forwards in her seat rather than sinking further away. "I can see it. Would it surprise you to know that I was once lost and drifting myself? It's probably of a different lost, as every instance is, but I like to think it's a little the same."

Her smile softened slightly, pleasantly, but it didm't quite dampen the predatory undertones. Not that Harry could look away. He was a rabbit hypnotised by a snake.

"Would you like me to help you?" Gertrude said, her voice lowering even further, almost lost between the shout of "we're set to go!". "Would you like me to show you how to find yourself?"

Harry couldn't move. He couldn't find his voice to reply - not as Gertrude stared at him, and not even when the majority of the lights in the room abruptly dimmed. He stared at her through the ensuing spotlight brightness fixed upon them both, and she stared at him in return, smile small again and waiting.

"I…" he attempted again.

"Camera's on you, Gertrude, in ten… nine…"

The director's voice snagged his attention in the direction of the blinding light , but only for a second. Only for a beat of murmured crewman and fastening attention before the gentle touch of a hand upon his arm drew it back to Gertrude. She tipped her head again, and when she spoke it was in barely a murmur.

"You've got potential, Harry, and not just as the Saviour of our world. Would you like me to show it to you?"

Harry didn't get a chance to reply. He barely had the opportunity to relocate his voice when the lights flared slightly brighter still and Gertrude was turning towards the camera with her beaming smile reaffixed. But despite that, and despite the predatory attention that Gertrude turned upon him throughout the entire interview and then afterwards, he found himself fastened by her words and unable to banish the possibility they presented to him.

 _Would you like me to show it to you?_

Yes. He would. Harry thought he'd like that very much.

* * *

A/N: First chapter of a new fic! As daunting and undermining of self-confidence as ever!  
Thanks for giving it a shot, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Please leave a review if you have the chance. I have no shame in admitting that I thrive on reviews. No shame at all.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to all of the wonderful people who reviewed! I was blown away by the lovely words I received. I can't even tell you how much it meant to read it. Thank you so, so much!  
Enjoy a particularly long chapter. I apologise in advance for the very, very slow burn feel, and the distinct minimalisation of Drarry at this point. I'm a sucker for long-winded plots, so I hope you are too :)

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 _Two Years Later_  
 _(September 2000)_

 _PANIC BUYING PUTS NATION IN SLOW LANE_

 _Hauliers blockaded oil refineries across the country yesterday, triggering a wave of panic-buying by motorists as petrol stations ran dry…_

Flicking _The Telegraph_ closed, disregarding the Muggle news not as unworthy but as irrelevant for pursue further, Draco reached instinctively for the magazine alongside it. _Radio Times_ was scrawled in elegant white calligraphy on the front cover, the beginning of the title only partially covered by the head of a doll-like character wearing a stern, fixed expression. _New shows are GO_ is said in block yellow print around the page, and then _Stand by for Thunderbirds as autumn TV lifts off._

Draco didn't know what a 'Thunderbird' was in the Muggle world, thought it probably didn't have much to do with a real Thunderbird, but that hardly mattered. He flipped through the glossy pages and absorbed the fine print, half of which he didn't understand for the Muggle references.

Then the next magazine: _Cosmopolitan_ with splattered statements like 'Cosmo's Karma Sutra 3' and '345+ Fall Fashion Finds' across the glaring red cover. The _National Geographic_ magazine bordered in yellow and spread with beautiful depictions of landscapes as often as text, and _Good Housekeeping_ with the lime green glare of 'What Julia Knows' all but shouting at him from the front cover. It was so obviously directed towards a different demographic than himself, but Draco absorbed it all like a starving man scarfed food.

One day. For only one day Draco had been back in London. Little things, little voices, and the differences witnessed even in the spread on the front of Muggle papers and magazines, was very telling. London had changed in his absence. Not noticeably, maybe but to his keenly nostalgic eyes, with the memory of how it had been sharply contrasting Paris of the past two years, Draco could see it. Even more so because he had been bereft of experiencing those changes first hand throughout his sentence.

There was no longer a cloud of foreboding hanging above the city skyscrapers. The thick pervasiveness of Dark magic no longer clogged the air. The tangible waves of fear that seemed to crawl down the roads and weave through buildings as much as it infected the wide-eyed street-goers was gone. And that was just the changes that were apparent in Muggle London. Draco could only wonder just how much more drastic the alterations were to the pockets of the Wizarding world that peppered the city.

It was only when, replacing another magazine back upon its perch and ignoring the watchful gaze of the newsstand attendant, Draco caught a glimpse of his wristwatch and paused in reaching for another. Cursing beneath his breath, he spared one final glance for the knowledge, the titbits, the tiny morsels of information in text format that he'd been bereft for so long, before turning away. He shook his head at his longing foolishness, though couldn't deny the truth; Draco had become something of a miser when it came to news stories. He was almost as bad as Pansy.

Turning sharply on his heel and striding down the busy street, Draco deafened himself to the honking of horns, the revving of engines and the shouts from windows that emitted from the bumper-to-bumper traffic. He wove through pedestrians, dodging around a businessman talking into the palm-sized brick he knew to be a Muggle cell phone, skirted along the edge of a bus stop packed with school children cackling and shouting amongst themselves, and paused alongside the intermittently beeping lights of the crossing. When the luminescent WAIT flickered out, he was nearly barrelled over in the abrupt stampede of crossers.

Draco cursed the bustling, but only in his mind. He'd taught himself better than to utter his disgruntlement aloud. Not only did Muggles show little respect for wizards – if they knew of them at all – but even residents of the Wizarding world would have gone so far as to deliberately shoulder into him should they pass one another on the street. Especially them, even. Draco knew. He'd experienced just such brief confrontations more often than he could recall.

Hopefully, London would be different to the Parisian wizards and witches whose antagonism rode on the coattails of international news reports. It didn't matter that the crimes of the Malfoys and Death Eaters were focused upon London and Britain as the birthplace of their disruption. Capitol cities were nothing if not slaves to trends. Hopefully, Draco would slide beneath the radar in being a newly returning face in London. Hopefully – but his hopes weren't particularly high.

Glancing briefly at his watch again, frowning as the minutes ticked closer to five o'clock, Draco used the advantage of his height to scan his surroundings. Regardless of the upper-class status of Mayfair that he'd swept into minutes before, people were always aplenty.

"Where is that bloody…?" he muttered to himself, turning in place. Only for his frown to smooth and a sigh to slip from his lips when he caught sight of the distant building. Disregarding his watch, he started into the sea of crowd once more.

Afternoon on Bruton Street wasn't as congested as it could have been. The further down the street Draco walked, the less it seemed to be so, too. He was grateful for that, at least. It wasn't only because of the glaring eyes and deliberate collisions that he'd grown to dislike crowds. There was something about spending an increasingly large amount of his time in the company of nameless Muggles that had Draco tending towards anonymity rather than being noticed. Or maybe that was just the weight of his sentence over his head, the final words that accompanied its cessation that had been hollowly bestowed upon him less than a week before.

"You are free to go, Mr. Malfoy. The Gatekeeping provisional charms have been removed from your wand and you are no longer confined to the city of Paris. But be warned: should you think to act in an erratic or concerning manner again…"

The unfinished threat was understood despite its incompleteness. Draco had no intention of acting up. Despite the crowds, the potential for ostracism if not outright acts of hatred, there was something comforting about being back in his own country again. Even if his parents weren't with him this time, and even if unfavourable memories did wash up a little more frequently. Draco was relieved to be home.

Or he would have been if one of his few remaining friends hadn't demanded they meet at restaurant he'd never been to before the very day he returned. Truly, she could have helped him to transition back into London life just a little more. But then, Pansy Parkinson had never been a particularly sympathetic person.

 _The Square_ was an unremarkable building situated between similarly unremarkable if regal estates of a consistent height. Draco only identified it from the building at its side that stood out like a beacon, starkly black and white, and contrasting to the pale colours of those surrounding it. He swept past the markedly thinner pavement-idlers towards the building, unmarked but for a rusty-red wall depicting the restaurant's name in minute writing.

Unremarkable. Unlike the interior.

It was chic. Sophisticated. Minimalistic and refined, with dark, polished floors that reflected the soft, bright lighting overhead. Round tables scattered throughout, each draped in rippling white tablecloths and set with wine glasses and glistening cutlery. Throughout, a tinkling hum of music permeated that would have pleasantly offset any murmur of conversation that disrupted a private meal if any existed. It wasn't necessary just yet; there was barely a handful of diners within, and Draco couldn't say he thought less of the restaurant for it. The wide windows showed the sun had barely begun to retreat for the evening.

Nodding at the _maître d'_ and gesturing with a nod of his head across the room, Draco swept towards where Pansy had already seated herself. She fit the scene seamlessly, positioned at an angle with her legs crossed and wineglass raised in hand as she peered down at a sheaf of papers with a blank if heavy-lidded expression. Her poise and aura of entitlement would have left none suspecting she was barely twenty years old.

"You look to be in a foul mood, Pansy," Draco said, stepping up behind one of the remaining chairs and regarding her with a raised eyebrow. "Is the vintage not to your taste? Would you rather find somewhere else to dine this evening?"

Pansy blinked heavily as she glanced up from her papers. A languid smile spread across her lips, painted as deeply purple as the wine in her hand. "Hello, dear. I didn't see you come in."

"Oh, I doubt that," Draco said, shrugging out of his coat. He paused only long enough to plant a whisper of a kiss on Pansy's cheek before taking his seat. "I don't think you've become quite so self-absorbed as to be unaware of every minute detail of your surroundings."

Pansy's smile widened as though Draco had paid her a compliment. To someone like Pansy, it very much was. Everything about her was composed and precise, from the fiercely straight cut of her short hair to the pencil lining her eyebrows, the smooth façade of her make-up and the subtly intimidating high collar of her dress that seemed to somehow lengthen her neck. Pansy's facade was deliberate, just as her distraction with her reading had been. Draco didn't think for a second that she hadn't noticed the very second he'd entered the restaurant.

Before Pansy had the chance to reply, a waiter in a crisp shirt and pressed trousers appeared as though he'd Apparated alongside their table. He offered Draco a formal if dashing smile, tipping his head in a respectful nod.

"Good evening, sir," he said smoothly. "I hope your day has been eventful."

"Quite," Draco replied without inflection. He hadn't much care for posturing these days, even from waiters. "Though it could hardly be constituted evening just yet."

The waiter's smile didn't falter. "Indeed, sir." Seemingly from nowhere, he conjured a menu and presented it to Draco with easy elegance. "Can I interest you in a beverage? Or would you prefer to begin your order?"

Draco spared Pansy a sidelong glance to which she only gave the minutest of shrugs. He accepted the menu as she silently suggested, flipping it towards himself. Only to snort a moment later and roll his eyes. "Really, Pansy?"

"What's that, dear?"

Her tone carried just a breath of amusement beneath her innocent inquiry. Draco ignored it to stare at her flatly. "Was it out of kindness or cruelty that you specifically chose a French-inspired restaurant for my first dinner back in Britain?"

"Oh, come now," Pansy said, humming into her glass as she rested it against her lips. "You should know that one can hardly throw a stone in Mayfair without puncturing a hole through the window of a French restaurant. No offence intended," she added with a brief glance at the waiter. He only tipped his head again in response.

Draco sighed. It was so typical of Pansy. "I take that as an insult to my good taste."

"Good taste? Parisian cuisine is the finest."

"Of which I have partaken far too frequently in the past two years."

"Ah, of course. My mistake, dear."

Draco bit back another snort A mistake? Unlikely. "I'm sure. You're paying tonight."

"I had intended to."

Pansy smiled against the edge of her glass and in that smile, Draco saw the hint of softness. He saw the fondness that so rarely seeped through her cool exterior and felt his exasperation fade into fondness of his own. He'd missed Pansy's company. Her infrequent visits to the Malfoy manor on the outskirts of Paris weren't nearly often enough. He could forgive her teasing in the face of the underlying kindness such jests masked.

Dropping his attention to the wine list, Draco scanned briefly before offering the menu back to the waiter. "I'll have a glass of the 1947 _Domaine Huet_ , if you would."

"Very good, sir," the waiter said, accepting the menu with a slight bow.

"Do you intend to impoverish me, Draco?" Pansy drawled as the man slipped silently towards the bar.

"If only I could," Draco replied. "Your financial burden was far less than my own in the post-war takings."

"That's not to say that they didn't take."

"True."

"I believe my portion was directly funnelled into Ministry refurbishment."

Draco turned his lips downwards slightly. "How unfortunate."

Pansy hummed through a sip of wine. "I agree. Personally, I would have preferred for the funding to be gifted directly to the _Prophet_ headquarters. It has been sorely pathetic competition these past years, and recent headlines have only just begun to make up for its previous pitiful attempts."

Allowing himself a small smile, Draco settled back into his seat and regarded his friend. She was a force to be reckoned with, there was no denying. Crushed and browbeaten after the war, bullied into shame and guilt as much by herself as by the supposed 'light' side, Pansy had rebounded with a vengeance that took the journalism industry by storm. Incredulity for her age wouldn't only arise in the face of the impression she presented; Pansy had made a name for herself that few others in their mutual circumstances could equal, and in precious little time. Her efforts seemed to spit in the face of every shunning word and snide side-eye, only climbing higher for them.

"On the subject," Draco said, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap, "how is work? Do you still leave destruction in your wake?"

Pansy chuckled, smirking. "I have been given another warning, you know."

"I'm surprised it's taken this long, to be honest."

"Apparently my 'attack' upon the Lady Barbara was 'cutthroat and malicious'."

"Well," Draco said, drawing out the word. He let his ensuing silence speak for itself.

Far from offended, Pansy's smirk widened, and Draco couldn't help but reply in kind. "Did you read the article?" she asked.

"Only half a dozen times," Draco replied.

"Only half a dozen?"

"Yes. That was before Mother had it framed and mounted upon our wall." Draco chuckled. "I believe that if you hadn't already been an honorary member of the Malfoy family, that single piece that you bestowed upon the world certainly tipped you into full recognition."

Pansy tipped her head back and laughed. It said something of her genuine delight that, when the waiter returned, she didn't cease nor even spare him a moment of her attention. "I'll write to Narcissa and thank her for formalising the relationship, then."

"You do that. Or, better yet, pay her a visit. She hasn't seen you in far too long, and you know she struggles with house arrest more than I ever did."

"Yes," Pansy murmured, her good humour dying slightly into thoughtfulness. "Well, I do have an interview with that idol Monique Bordeaux in three weeks, so perhaps…"

Draco could only stare at her, shaking his head slightly as she trailed off into pondering. Monique Bordeaux was an up-and-coming fashion guru. Hailing from France, she'd spread her talons throughout Europe in a remarkably swift progression. That Pansy, a journalist and interviewer with less than two years of experience, and the family of Death Eaters to boot, had landed herself a job with the woman herself was nothing short of miraculous. Some speculated that she used underhanded means to achieve her goals. Others that it was her infamy and her family's war crimes that stirred interest in celebrities and thus gained her a foot in the door.

Draco knew otherwise. Pansy's success came from Pansy alone. She so sharply contrasted Draco's own experiences of the past years – confined to the fringes of Wizarding society in a country that wasn't his own, with his magic bound to the simplest of spells – that it was jarring. He might have even been jealous of her for her success, except he wasn't. Draco could only be proud that Pansy had been able to put the past behind her as well as she had. She'd changed, and only for the better, but some things never changed.

Taking a sip of his wine, Draco swirled it around his mouth for a moment as he considered. It was a good vintage, rich and layered, the aroma sweet and fruity with a hint of discernible honey. He wondered idly if Pansy would agree it was worth the pounds.

"Will you regale me with every article of interest that has occurred in London since your last letter?" Draco asked, settling his glass down upon the table before him with a soft _thunk_.

Pansy blinked, shaking herself from her thoughts. She rested her own glass down in turn. "Oh, but of course. In your absence there has been nothing but riot and intrigue."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm sure."

"You don't believe me?"

"Far from it, Pansy. If you claim there's riot and intrigue then I'm sure it exists – only that it's far less interesting than you make it out to be."

Pansy smiled. "Is that so?"

"You're a journalist. It's in your blood to exaggerate every story under the sun."

"You belittle me?"

"Consider it praise. It's a remarkable skill, to polish up a pile of shit and call it gold."

Pansy laughed again. Her fingernails drummed on the table in an echo of the whispering music overhead. "It is indeed a skill. I'm quite proud of myself."

"As you should be," Draco said with a nod.

"I don't believe that Mary Matron would have been quite so popular had I not published that article of her supposed celibacy," she said, raising a hand to tap her chin thoughtfully.

"Without doubt. Abstinence is few and far between these days."

"Isn't it? Although, from an alternate angle, Ewon McAllister would certainly not have been awarded third most-handsome bachelor in Wizarding Britain had I not preached of his skill in wooing."

"Of course not. He's heinously repulsive."

"Isn't he just?" Eyes brightening, Pansy leant across the table towards Draco and, without further ado, leapt into a frivolous tale of the exploits of her latest target, the renowned potioneer Charlotte Nettle, and how she was certain she had a scoop on her latest line of Enhancement Potions. That was how it always was with Draco and Pansy; they rarely exchanged superficial pleasantries because what was the point? Why not spend their time enjoying themselves, as Pansy clearly was? "Nothing works so effectively so quickly," she was saying insistently of Nettle's work, and Draco could only nod in agreement. He couldn't have slipped a word in if he'd tried.

It was like watching a fish swim. Pansy was in her element, in the refined context of _The Square_ , in her role of an official gossipmonger, and in her own skill. She'd always been confident, had always spoken her thoughts, but Draco thought she'd grown into herself since the war. Necessity had demanded she abandon the pieces of herself that luxury had until then allowed her to hold onto. That evolution hadn't been entirely apparent when she'd visited Draco over the past couple of years, but it was starkly so when he watched her across the table. Pansy didn't simply survive. She lived to her fullest.

With a final, contented sigh, Pansy trailed off and settled back into her seat. She readjusted herself, re-crossing her legs and raising her glass once more. "But I could talk about such things forever," she said. "I'm sure I'm boring you to death."

"Not at all," Draco said with just enough sarcasm that Pansy wouldn't be able to miss it.

She smirked into the dregs of her wine. "Alright, Lord Pompous. I'll refrain."

"Lord Pompous?"

"Would you rather I call you Lord Dragon?"

Draco winced. "Salazar, no. Spare me that." He hadn't been called his childhood nickname in years, for which he was truly grateful. "If nothing else, I'm certainly not a Lord anymore."

"But still a dragon?" Pansy teased, though there was a touch of solemnity to her words. The erasure of noble titles was one punishment that had only been escaped by a handful of pureblood families involved in the wrong side of the war. The Malfoy's weren't one of them.

"Mm," Draco grunted. Scooping up his own glass, he frowned into the bronze-coloured liquid, swirling it in idle circles. Then, with another grunt, he downed it in one. It was almost sacrilege to consume the vintage in such a manner, but Pansy didn't bat an eyelid.

Just as she didn't when, planting his glass onto the table before him once more, Draco gestured to the sheaf of papers she'd been reading upon his arrival. "What's this, then? You were certainly making a show of sincere attentiveness."

Pansy regarded him for a moment, slowly swirling her own wine. Her eyes were blank, devoid of sympathy or pity, and Draco was grateful for that. It didn't necessarily mean she didn't feel it but simply that she didn't let it show. Visibly shrugging aside her solemnity, she dropped her gaze to the papers.

"A disappointment, that's what it is," she said with a dramatic huff. "A sheer and utter disappointment."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"They're my potential recruits," she said, and that was it. As though Draco should already know what that meant. Which, after a moment of thought, he abruptly did.

"Ah," he sighed with understanding.

Draco had been removed from London. He'd been set apart from the British Wizarding world. He knew next to nothing of what had become of that world since the war – of the people who had fought, who had been convicted, who had triumphed and became exalted in their fame – just as he hadn't the foggiest clue as to what had happened to key features of his past.

Like his old manor.

Like the ministry, beyond the scarce description of it being 'rebuilt' as Pansy had mentioned.

Like Hogwarts that would surely have required rebuilding of its own for the damage that had been inflicted upon it.

The people, the places, the families broken and destroyed – Draco knew nothing of them, and not because he didn't want to. It was a part of his sentence. He was to retreat to his family home in France for the period of two years exactly, in which he would have no contact with the outside world but for a precious few confidants and no access to the developments of the recovering country. He wasn't to seek knowledge of such developments either, or so was ordered of him. Draco was to be kept in the dark, to be leashed and smothered with his ignorance just as much as his magic had been.

He hadn't realised quite how much that punishment would sting. Ignorance… It was a blow that Draco hadn't appreciated the strength of before it was inflicted.

As such, he greedily horded any information that was allowed of him. Like what Greg had sent him in his letters from his own isolation, as surly and begrudging as Greg had always been. Like Blaise's jovial missives from further south where he'd preached the wonders of his new life with his cousins and that he 'didn't really miss his mother's company that much at all', despite the obvious fallacy of his words.

Like from Pansy, who had given him a step-by-step, real-time rendition of how she had climbed in the reporting world, because she had somehow realised just how much he needed the little titbits that accompanied her story. Her recruitment and subsequent analysis of applicants was a process that she'd been undertaking for weeks with a very similar response to that she offered the sheaf before her at that moment.

"I take it that you've none with potential enough to appeal to you?" Draco asked, gesturing once more to the papers of what was likely resumes.

Pansy clicked her tongue sharply. "There are a few hopefuls. Some even have sufficient experience. But nothing particularly standout, and you know how much I like standouts."

"I do."

"I've a mind to discard them all." She shot a glare at the resumes before smoothing her expression once more. "But, unfortunately, necessity dictates that I must accept one sorry employee."

"Have you actually seen any of their work?" Draco asked.

In reply, Pansy flipped through the papers and extracted a bundle pinned together. "Here," she said. "This is one of them. Daisy, her name is – and isn't that just pathetically simpering? But even without her purely atrocious name, I could hardly hire her as my official photographer when she only produces bloody catalogue shots."

Draco accepted the bundle wordlessly, and even as he flipped to only the second picture he could see what Pansy meant. There was no life to the pictures. They were stagnant, posed, absent of the trembling fluidity that bespoke the subject caught in the midst of action. The only one ever remotely resembling such a shot was just a little blurred at the edges. A little, but enough that Draco couldn't refocus his attention away from the mar.

"It really is pathetic," he muttered.

"Isn't it just?" Pansy replied heavily.

"How many applications have you had? How many are actually better than… this?"

"Altogether?" Pansy tapped her chin with a finger. "About sixty, last counted."

"Sixty?" Draco drew his gaze towards the pile of resumes again. "And yet nothing?"

"Nothing standout," Pansy repeated. "And standout is what I want. I need my photographer to hit as hard as my articles."

"That's surely impossible."

"True. But they could at least hit almost as hard."

"Still impossible, but less so."

Pansy hummed, frowning at the papers. "I may have to look further afield, I think."

"Meaning?"

"Delving into the Muggle pool of unlikely potentials."

Draco allowed himself a small smile. The thought of working with Muggles was a little discomforting still, but nowhere near as aversive as it had once been. Rendered all but a squib for two whole years, Draco had grown a reluctantly healthy respect for the capability of those without magic. He couldn't imagine the struggle of facing every day without it with no promise of his incapacity being lifted.

Besides, Draco had been forced to interact with Muggles aplenty. It was that or share no company besides his mother at all; the witches and wizards of Paris were far from welcoming of him.

"You never know," he said, reaching for the pile of resumes. "You might find one that's actually competent. They have significantly better equipment for technology than the Wizarding world, you know."

"Careful, Draco," Pansy said mildly. "You almost sound as though you're praising them."

Draco chuckled but didn't reply. Flicking through the papers, he barely caught a word or two of each but focused his attention more upon the pictures. Some were moderately acceptable. Some even warranted a brief pause in his flicking. Most, however, were unremarkable, and certainly none were standout. He frowned as he tilted one such image slightly in an attempt to discern just what the image was attempting to convey.

"This is a terrible angle," he said.

"Is that the one with the woman and her baby?" Pansy asked.

"Yes."

"I know. Terrible."

"And what about this one," Draco said, holding up another. "What kind of lighting is that?"

Pansy pulled a face. "I think he was attempting artistry yet ultimately failed."

"Definitely failed."

"Why he would bother when he doesn't have any apparent artistic flair is a mystery to me."

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Flipping through the pictures again, placing potential 'not terrible' ones in a pile, Draco set about assisting where Pansy hadn't asked him to. She didn't chide him for stealing her pile; rather, when the waiter reappeared with quiet askance as to whether they would like to order or not, she waved him away to allow Draco to continue.

Draco hardly noticed. He hadn't any particular interest in the recruiting process, but he'd heard so much about Pansy's work directly from her that he couldn't help but be a little invested. Besides, some of the pictures were truly dismal.

"I'd discard this one right off the bat," Draco said, flipping a stack to the side.

Pansy nodded. "What was his name? Charles Hawthorn?"

"That's the one. He's boring."

"Agreed."

"And this one, too. There's even less life to these pictures than Daisy managed."

"That one…?" Pansy leant across the table to peer at the resume. "Ah, yes. Her CV is just as boring, I'll have you know."

"I could have anticipated that," Draco muttered. He flicked through another few candidates before pausing upon one. "This one might have slight potential."

Pansy peered to where he pointed once more. She nodded slightly. "He's the best of a bad bunch, it seems."

"Where do you find these people, Pansy?" Draco asked, holding up a picture in the air and squinting at with the assistance of the more direct ceiling light. "You need a finer-toothed comb, I think."

"Or two minds."

Draco blinked. Raising an eyebrow, he lowered the picture to turn a sidelong gaze upon Pansy. "Is that a request for assistance?"

Abruptly, Pansy's composure became tinged by an edge of solemnity once more. Reaching towards him, she tapped a long nail upon the back of where Draco's hand had lowered to res on the tablet. "What are you going to do with yourself now, Draco?"

Staring back at the photograph without really seeing it, Draco affected disregard. "I have no idea. I'm sure something will crop up."

"That's the thing, though." Pansy's voice lowered, became suddenly insistent. "Things don't just crop up, Draco. Not for people like us."

"Meaning?" Draco said.

"Don't be naïve. It doesn't suit you."

Huffing, Draco all but glared at the picture pinned between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, Pansy, what do you propose? That I act and seek purpose for myself in a world that hisses and rages at the very mention of the name 'Malfoy'?"

"No more than it does 'Parkinson'," Pansy murmured.

"You're delusional if you truly believe that." Sighing, Draco discarded his pretence, flipping the photograph onto the table and shifting his gaze to meet Pansy's. "You've certainly found a niche for yourself, Pansy. Your family name is something set apart from that."

"It is," Pansy said slowly. "As can yours be."

"After two years of incarceration?"

"House arrest isn't quite incarceration."

"You think that just because I'm locked up in a foreign manor the world would forget that my father is in Azkaban?"

Pansy fell silent. She lowered her gaze to where she still tapped the back of Draco's hand, the pressure of her finger barely felt as it made little divots in his skin. She opened and closed her mouth twice before speaking. "People won't forget."

"No," Draco said, though it was emitted as more of a growl.

"But you, as I did, have the opportunity of utilising the anonymity of the Muggle world to your advantage."

"Which you've embraced so warmly."

Pansy ignored Draco's sarcasm but to stab the back of his hand a little harder with her claw-like nail. "There's an opportunity, Draco," she said. "For you. And for me."

The music rippling through _The Square_ had shifted multiple times throughout the brief period that Draco had been seated, but it chose that exact moment to fall into a lull. The stagnant silence seemed to echo with potential but also something a little more ominous. Draco loved Pansy and could tolerate few others as he could one of his oldest friends, but her offers were rarely made without a few hidden landmines buried out of sight.

The issue was that Draco couldn't find it within himself to care. Since he'd returned to London barely a day before, since he'd accepted that he was a free man – if only physically, for society still kept him imprisoned – Draco had hit a wall. It was a wall that he refused to consider just yet, but even such refusal couldn't be ignored forever when it barred his path so effectively. Draco couldn't even see over that wall to what potentially lay beyond.

Was Draco scared? No. He didn't let himself feel the fear of floundering. But was he wary? Most definitely. The future looked nothing short of intimidating when it was riddled with so many pitfalls and disasters, the nature of which he hadn't even fully contemplated. To take an opportunity the likes of which Pansy offered…

"What are you suggesting, exactly?" Draco asked slowly.

With a final prod at the back of his hand, Pansy withdrew her claws and instead settled for cupping her chin in her hand, her elbow resting easily upon the table. "You've never held a camera before, have you, Draco?"

"Held a camera?" Draco arched an eyebrow. "Pansy, I'm not that incompetent."

"Alright, alright. You've never held a camera and taken a decent picture, then. Have you?"

Draco opened his mouth but closed it again a moment later. What could he say to that? It was, regrettably, somewhat true. Draco didn't favour admitting his own incompetency. He was, if nothing else, a pursuer of perfection.

"What are you suggesting, exactly?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. The words sounded petulant even to his own ears.

The hint of a smile touched Pansy's lips. "I'm saying, Draco," she said, deliberately enunciating each word, "that we could benefit one another with mutual support. And that I could utilise your skills."

"My skills?" Draco snorted. "My photography skills of which you've so kindly pointed out I lack?"

"Yes, you lack, but them?" Pansy gestured towards the papers that Draco had laid before himself with a sweep of her hand. The photos that he could see poking out from behind white slips of resumes were almost an offence to the eyes. Where was the refinement? Honestly, it was pathetic. "These so-called professionals have experience, and this is what they produce. You, however, have no such experience yet can already differentiate the good from the bad."

"Differentiation is far different from being able to produce valuable product myself," Draco said.

Pansy's smile didn't waver. "You're putting up a useless protest, Draco."

"Useless? How so?"

"Say yes."

"And why would I –?"

"Have you got anything better to do with yourself?"

Draco opened his mouth to reply but once more found himself without worlds. He slowly pressed his lips together, dropping his gaze down to the table and the papers spread like a second tablecloth. He didn't know what he was resisting. He hadn't any particular interest in photography, but it wasn't as though he disliked the idea. If anything, that it complemented Pansy's career and would thus support his own attentiveness to news headlines was a benefit.

It was simply that…

"I know," Pansy said. "It's not the future you thought you'd have."

Draco didn't shift his stare. He couldn't. She spoke too much truth.

"But then, I can't say this is the future I saw for myself, either. Bleeding Morgana, I pictured myself a refined lady of the Parkinson family who barely had to lift a finger in her life and pursued nothing but endless leisure." Pansy sighed. "But such is not to be. And I can't say I regret it."

"Can't you?" Draco asked quietly, slowly lifting his gaze towards her.

Pansy's smile had grown quiet. It was a secretive expression, coveted, and Draco knew that few enough people in the world had been given the opportunity to see it. Pansy was sparse with showing even the barest hint of vulnerability to anyone.

"Yes," she said simply. "And, if I'm to be perfectly honest, I believe you can too. You may not have a longing for capturing the photographic image, Draco, but you've always been a passionate person, whether in study or maintenance of your arrogant façade –"

"It's not a façade," Draco muttered.

Pansy's smile became a smirk. "Sure. You keep telling yourself that. Nonetheless, I think this could be good for you. Besides," once more she raised her glass to her lips, "you've always sought to be the best at everything you've attempted. I'm giving you the opportunity, Draco. Take it."

Why Draco felt the need to protest, he didn't know. It could have been that Pansy was right and that it wasn't the life he'd wanted for himself – but then neither had being a Death Eater, or being incarcerated for two years. It could have been because he truly didn't like being incompetent at something and he would have to start from step one if he were to be a photographer – but then, every skill had to be started for the first time once. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, frowning, until –

"Take it, Draco," Pansy murmured again.

With a sigh, Draco allowed his crossed arms to unfold. He snatched up his glass and held it aloft in a gesture to the waiter. "If I'm going to do this for you so you don't have to fish through any more inadequate fools, then you owe me at least another drink."

Pansy didn't argue. She didn't need to. They both knew that she wasn't the one being helped. Not really.

* * *

Draco's remaining resistance endured until he finally stepped into his first photography studio. Or a little after that initial step, but it was in the studio that everything truly changed.

The studio itself was situated on one of the upper floors of a soaring building that overlooked a sea of other, less soaring buildings otherwise identical in their blank whiteness and walls of windows. Following on Pansy's heels, he entered a wide, echoing foyer of polished floors and minimalist desks and attentive receptionists. Draco followed her as she bypassed them into a sleek elevator without comment; he didn't question that it was clearly a Muggle building that she'd led him into. Even had he not already known the nature of the grey area between Wizard and Muggle, Pansy's missives had informed him that, outside of the notorious _Daily Prophet_ , most of the media branches of the Wizarding world extended beyond its restricted boundaries.

"You said you've worked with this man before?" Draco asked as they stood side-by-side in then refined elevator, accompanied only by calming, neutral music and the flicking of the numbered light above the doors.

Pansy hummed affirmation. "A number of times, and again only quite recently, so I'm still fresh in his mind. He's a casting director by trade, a photographer when he has the time."

"You, fresh in his mind?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "Not the other way around?"

Without turning her head, Pansy drew her gaze towards him. Her lips twitched very slightly. "He's very good, Draco. One of the best, even. It was a lucky break that I caught him when I did, actually; he found me a good couple of photographers and editors that he's worked with before and got them to lay off their prejudice for a bit."

"And you somehow managed to convince him to instruct me in the supposedly masterful arts of photography?"

"I can be very persuasive, dear."

Of that, Draco had no doubt. He'd been the subject of Pansy's 'persuasiveness' many a time through their shared history. What she couldn't coax forth with a smile and a silver-tongued request she acquired through sheer intimidation. Draco could almost pity her victims sometimes.

Nonetheless, he didn't comment further as the elevator pinged and the doors slid silently open. He wouldn't discredit Pansy by asking how she'd managed it – for a master never revealed their methods – and he wouldn't do her the even greater disservice of asking why she'd bothered to go to such lengths. Her assistance was for the same reason that he'd helped her write her essays without question countless times throughout their school years. It was simply what they did.

The hallway that stretched from the elevator was glowingly white, the pristine floorboards just a shade darker. Empty walls made the passage seem wider than it was, broken only by intermittent doors closed and embedded along each side. Following in Pansy's wake, her confident strides slowed not even slightly by her ridiculously high stilettos, Draco instinctively strained his ears through the empty silence. Nothing but a distant click of a door broke that silence.

"A pleasing ambiance," Draco murmured.

"I've always found to be, yes," Pansy replied, flashing a smirk over her shoulder. "This is the difference between the good and the best in the industry."

"What, a quiet workspace?"

"The respect and tangible awe, I rather think."

Draco allowed himself a small smile. He was more appreciative of respectful silence rather than outbursts of pride and arrogance. Or at least he had become so these days; he wasn't so oblivious as to overlook the glaring fact that he'd been one such source of noise in the past. Time, experience, and a healthy dose of debilitating humility afflicted upon him had changed that. Draco had learnt the value of silence and the peaceful safety it could offer.

Turning the corner at the end of the hall, Pansy paused before the first door. She rapped her knuckles in a sort, sharp knock and waited. When the door opened, it was flung wide with the efficiency of the distinctly time-poor.

"Pansy. Right on the dot, as usual."

"Of course," Pansy said, tipping her head in a nod. "I couldn't have you waiting on my beck and call, Dimitri."

Dimitri gave her a crisp smile. He was a short man, slightly plump, and he somehow filled the doorway despite his diminutive stature. His spiked hair, gelled precisely to quilled points, matching the cropped goatee upon his chin, spoke of one who took pride in his appearance. That much was even more apparent from the sleek lines of his trousers, his fitted vest and the folds of his overlong collar. Draco could respect that in a person. He'd never quite understood how anyone could step outside of their house without showing their best to the world. It would leave them far too open to attack.

While Draco eyed him warily, Dimitri spared him a considering glance. His gaze gave Draco a calculating sweep before he met his eyes stare for stare. There was judgment there, but nothing derisive. "You're Draco Malfoy, I take it?" He extended a hand. "Dimitri Nilsson."

Draco shook his hand with the same efficiency Dimitri had opened the door. "Pleasure," he murmured.

"The pleasure's all mine. I owe Pansy more than a favour or two, so consider it partial repayment."

Side-eyeing Pansy briefly, Draco nodded. He didn't question that she used the repayments not for herself but for him. That was something they'd always done, too.

Dimitri ushered them through the doorway with a precise step backwards, sweeping his arm wide. Pansy clopped through with casual strides, the picture of both familiarity and entitlement, and Draco followed on her heels. He paused just inside the door and said nothing for the curiosity that lifted his eyebrows and turned his gaze.

The room was wide, open, and seemingly larger than should have been possible for an indoor space, though without the Enlargement Charms of magic. Windowless, it held none of the closeted gloominess that was often entailed in internal rooms; rather, the glaringly white walls reflected in the simple, similarly white table and the inky dark floor made it seem larger, brighter, and more open. Even the overhead lights beaming down upon the hardwood were white rather than yellow, starkly enhancing a yellow arrow in centre of the floor directly before the desk and seats that was the only mar upon the otherwise empty room. Despite the seeming randomness of it, the arrow and placement of furniture appeared nothing if not perfectly precise.

Pansy spoke. Dimitri replied. Draco heard them both only detachedly, enough to discern the exchange of pleasantries in a familiar manner. He'd never been in a casting studio, and even knowing that his own situation, his own room with his own elements of a photographic career that he could morph and manipulate as befit his needs, would be different entirely, the barest glimpse into an aspect of what Pansy was making of his future was somehow captivating.

Draco didn't have much interest in photography. Not really. But being in the midst of what lay behind the images in magazines and still-frames, the election of the perfect model in a refined selection process, certainly piqued his interest.

"… won't believe that of you, Pansy," Dimitri was saying. "You have far too much rationality to let yourself be taken in by the foolish whims of celebrities."

"Why, thank you," Pansy replied smoothly. "I've always considered myself of a sophisticated class above such trivial personas."

Dimitri laughed. "Careful. Those personas all but write your pay checks themselves."

"Mm. Sadly enough."

Dimitri stepping to his side drew Draco's attention from the studio scene. He offered Draco a small, short smile, curt but not unkind. "So. You're to be my new apprentice photographer."

Draco tipped his head in what wasn't quite a nod. "If you'll have me."

"Hm." Dimitri drew his gaze up and down Draco once more. From anyone else, Draco might have found such assessment disconcerting or even solicitous, but Dimitri was purely thoughtful. "You've got the look for it, certainly."

"The look?" Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Professionalism, Draco dear," Pansy clarified.

"Professionalism will do little if I can't develop the skills and proficiency to perform."

"Too true," Dimitri said, a touch of satisfaction colouring his small smile this time. Gesturing with a nod, he pointed them towards the second door before leading the way. "If you'll follow me. I take it you've an interest in the industry, then, Draco?"

Shrugging, Draco followed him in step. "As much as I can with precious little actual experience in participating."

Dimitri gave another approving nod. "At least you can recognise you're not an expert."

"Hardly." Draco couldn't quite keep the disgruntlement from his voice. It didn't matter that he'd had no prior interest in photography; he disliked admitting his ineptitude in any area.

"Now, now, Draco," Pansy said from behind him. "No need to be touchy. Give yourself at least a day on the job."

"Preferably more than a day," Dimitri said. "Regardless of how naturally gifted you may be or how proficient a learner you are, everything – regrettably – take practice."

Draco grunted in reply. He might have said more, too, but whatever words rose upon his tongue died as he stepped into the adjacent room and caught sight of the spread before him.

The room itself was simple. A leather couch, a coffee table atop a thick rug, something too minimalistic to be a kitchenette with a kettle and one of those Muggle micro-waving appliances. A wide desk with the large square boxes he knew to be a computer positioned to the side, wheeled chair half tucked into it. That itself would have drawn Draco's attention. He'd been exposed to just enough Muggles enough over the past years that he had a certain appreciation for technology.

What truly caught his eye, however, were the pictures. So many pictures. The walls – they were probably white beneath the spreading mosaic, but it was difficult to discern for what all but covered them. Silenced, Draco slowly stepped towards the mosaic wall, gaze drawn to the images fitted perfectly against one another.

Dimitri hummed something distinctly proud. "Is that approval, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco didn't reply. He didn't need to, for he was sure his sentiment was conveyed through silence. Approval didn't have anything to do with it. Approval suggested subjectivity. Draco didn't think there was anything subjective about those pictures. They were works of art.

A woman sat upon a white floor in nothing but an oversized white shirt, her legs elegantly folded around herself as she stared intensely at the camera.

A man gazed towards a distant corner, the hint of a smile upon his lips, the muscles of his bare chest defined in the greyscale gradient of the picture.

A pair of women, young and smooth-faced, smiling at one another sidelong. A man with eyes closed as he rested his forehead against the temple of the woman in his arms. A trio more of men, poised and still but somehow fluid in their stasis. Faces, smiling or blank, cool or warm or something in between. Bodies arranged with perfect precision or seemingly captured in a moment of motion, bodies of art themselves draped in finery of simplicity or complexity, from floral dresses and arching heels to low-slung jeans and a plain shirt.

Barely a one face was repeated. Some, Draco saw, assumed the prestigious right of two or three depictions, but those few were scarce. Draco barely noticed; he was admittedly captured by the sights. This was something different to the pictures in magazines. Something other.

 _It is real art,_ Draco thought. _It's… near perfection._

That thought itself was enchanting. Stunning, even. Perfection was what Draco had strived for so long to attain in every area he applied himself, something he hadn't thought possible to reach. Now, in a turn that hadn't even been initiated by himself but by Pansy, he seemed to have stumbled across the closest thing to it.

"Merlin's bloody…" he murmured to himself.

"Merlin?" Dimitri asked, stepping up alongside him. "Are you a pagan as well?"

Draco frowned, momentarily drawn from his stupor, and glanced towards him. "What?"

"Like Pansy." Dimitri folded his arms as he too turned his appreciative gaze upon his wall. "She's told me only a little about it."

Draco whipped his attention towards Pansy as she drew along his other side and couldn't help but glare at the smugness playing across her face. The evening he'd met her she'd led him to believe that she didn't associate with Muggles, even in her career. In spite of Muggle technology, photography, and cinematography, she'd seemed positively derisive. But now…

 _Bitch. She could have given me some warning._

Draco would have to watch his tongue. If he was going to apprentice under Dimitri – who he more than suspected was a master of his trade even without Pansy's recommendation time – he would have to be very, very careful with what he said.

"Dimitri has taken shots of some of the most prominent models in London," Pansy said, as if in explanation. She gestured at the wall with a sweep of her hand. "Beyond that, even, isn't that right, Dimitri?"

"I have had the pleasure, yes," Dimitri replied, that satisfied smile in his voice again. Taking a step forward, he drew his finger across the image of a young man with brilliant curls. "Jamie Armstrong. He was surprising enthusiastic for someone so esteemed." His finger drifted downwards, grazing over a woman staring aloof and heavy lidded into the middle distance. "Fiona McGuire. Excellent model, though she doesn't take to suggestions too well."

"That must be frustrating," Draco said.

"Unduly, at times. How better to learn than by practicing adaptability?" Dimitri's finger drifted again. "Simone Whittaker. Absolutely gorgeous; you don't need to be told that. Just look at her presence. Winona Bellefonte: she's only young but definitely a something. Xavier: he was a struggle at first, but just look at his poise. You could hardly attain such a presence without innate skill…"

Draco didn't know the people Dimitri spoke of. He didn't recognise most of them, though his keen eye and admittedly sharp memory drew forth images he'd happened across in passing. If even he could remember them then they must indeed be prominent.

Not that Draco cared. He didn't care who any of the models were. He didn't care who he was photographing so long as he was practicing what he abruptly decided he wanted to pursue, wanted to perfect, and so long as the subjects in front of his lens abided by his wishes. It wasn't as if he had any investment in –

" – was surprisingly amiable company, and has a way with predicting just what was asked of him," Dimitri murmured a little wistfully, his words snapping into Draco's thoughts like a rubbed band. "He was only a rising star when I first came across him, but you wouldn't have picked it."

"Who?" Draco asked, his voice lashing out more sharply than he'd intended as he snapped his gaze towards Dimitri. "Who did you say?"

Dimitri glanced at him briefly before turning back to his wall, folding his arms once more. "Harry Potter. You've heard of him, I take it? Every John and Jane on the street has, even if they've little knowledge of the world of fashion and photography. Appeared out of nowhere but somehow…"

If Dimitri kept speaking, Draco didn't hear him. He thought he might have done, but he didn't care. All of Draco's attention – his abruptly dumbfounded attention – had swung and become fixed upon the picture that Dimitri had grazed his fingers across moments before. That picture…

Potter? Harry Potter?

Draco almost couldn't believe it. He stared, and stared, and stared at the static, utterly Muggle picture, and even as the features that were all too familiar to him became gradually more apparent, he still didn't think he could believe it. To think that Potter – that _Harry Potter_ –

"He's different, isn't he?" Pansy murmured in his ear.

Draco couldn't even nod. Different didn't begin to cover it. The man in the picture was something else. Something other than Potter and yet somehow still the same. The lines of him, slimmer and sharper than how he'd been in adolescence when last Draco had seen him, were only more enhanced by the lighting of the picture. The angle of his head, tilted downwards as Potter had so often kept his gaze trained, was the same and yet somehow different. The clasp of his arms to the back of his neck in a pose both elegant and natural, the slight turn of his chin as he stared into the bottom corner, the artful curl of his hair sprung loose from a similarly artful shag that didn't cover his eyes as Potter's so often had…

There were no glasses. There was no scar. No messy bird's nest atop his head or sloppy slump of his shoulders. What had once been oversized t-shirts and faded jeans was instead similarly simple attire but fitted, clinging to the contours of his body, emphasising rather than hiding. It was… it was somehow…

Draco swallowed thickly. It was Potter. It was definitely Harry Potter, and yet somehow wasn't. Somehow different. Somehow other, and, if not perfect, it was damn-near close.

"Merlin," Draco muttered once more, and he didn't even care that his voice croaked a little.

Pansy snorted nearly silently, but Draco ignored her. Dimitri stared at him with curiosity, but Draco ignored him, too. He couldn't quite help but reach, nearly touching the image pinned to the wall and so ethereal that it could have been actual magic.

Draco wanted. He suddenly wanted what Pansy had to offer for a different reason entirely. He wanted to capture that almost-perfection in a camera lens even when he'd barely held a camera in his life.

"There," Dimitri said, voice once more thickened with approval. "I think I can work with this. Thank you for finding him, Pansy."

Draco didn't know what he meant. He didn't really care.

"You're welcome," Pansy replied. "I do offer only the best potential for you, you know."

Draco didn't know what she meant either, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't look away from the picture.

"I take it this is your particular brand of enthusiasm, Draco? You're prepared to undertake the role of my apprentice and everything it entails? I'm sure Pansy has briefed you on what's expected of you."

Finally, with a struggle, Draco tore his gaze from the image on the wall towards Dimitri. Even in the face of the bearded man's small smile, his curiosity and blatant approval, the image of the model – of Potter – swum before his eyes. Draco didn't even truly care that his composure had slipped. He nodded shortly, hummed his affirmation, before turning back to the wall.

The studio, the wall of pictures, the artistry he'd gleaned – that might have been enough to entice Draco in pursuit of everything Pansy and Dimitri had to offer. But seeing that one photograph…

It was the nudge that pushed Draco over the brink and he stepped gladly.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Bloody hell, I didn't realise the length of the preamble of this story until going over it and editing the chapters. I apologise for what might seem like somewhat extensive preliminaries. I promise what is essentially the 'meat' of the story is just around the corner. Please stick with me till then!

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 _Two years later  
(September 2002)_

"To the left, take it a little... yes, that's good."

Harry turned, stilled, but didn't freeze. He knew better than to become rigid.

"And looking… yes, right, to me, yes."

He blinked slowly, almost lazily, at the lens as though it were a real eye, seeing it, seeing through it, and could make out the blink and flicker of the shutter snapping within.

"And taking another turn… if you could, with the shirt just…"

He didn't need to be told. Not really. He simply acted and what came, what felt right, suited. He turned. He twisted in a manner that had his open shirt fanning just slightly. He hooked a thumb into the front pocket of his jeans, a pocket that was so shallow it was barely a pocket at all.

The camera flicked. The lights beamed. The photographer made a gesture, and he responded.

Harry was in his element. Before the camera, before the photographer, being directed and conducted and yet making those directions and conduct his own. It was almost easy. As the photographer made another shot, the director ordering another tip of his head, he did so, but Harry made it his and he knew…

He did well. This was something that Harry knew he could do.

* * *

"That's a wrap!"

Like a switch abruptly flipped, noise erupted where there had been muted quiet. Throughout the studio, voices rung to the accompaniment of clattering equipment suddenly adjusted, the crew flowing into action. Stands were folded, bodies swept throughout with terse efficiency, cables were kicked out of the way, and more than one person was on their phone almost before the director had spoken.

Straightening, Harry raked a hand through his hair. Only to have it smacked away by the sharp slap of a hand.

"Don't do that. You're messing it all up."

Glancing over his shoulder towards where Von had appeared behind him, Harry smiled. "The shoot's over, Von. It doesn't matter if –"

"You should take more pride in my styling." Frowning, Von stepped around him and began skillfully rearranging the disruption Harry had apparently made of his hair. He was a tall man, and with the accompaniment of a frequent, disapproving frown when focused on his work, Von had a tendency to loom. "You're killing me, bub."

"You're just jealous because you don't have any hair to fuss over yourself," Harry replied with a pointedly glance towards Von's bald head. Von ignored him, continuing to plick and fix, and Harry him to do as he so desired. It was easier to simply let him have his way when it came to such details.

Von had been Harry's personal stylist for nearly three whole years. Though often demanding and even more often unwaveringly blunt, Harry liked him. His no-nonsense attitude was affable in its own way. The commands of his early days – "don't tug on your shirt like that or you'll crease it" and "when you pull a face like that, no amount of make-up can compensate" – had in many ways been as useful as those of Harry's agent, or of his tutor that had long since deemed him 'graduated'.

"I'm not even going anywhere after this, you know," Harry said, eyeing the crew as they swept around him in their post-shoot mania. He'd always watched curiously; as a world parallel to but distinctly apart from his own, it never failed to interest him. The flashing lights, the snapping cameras, the intent expressions and focused gazes - so often Harry had been at the mercy of masters of their trades, and that each worker had their own distinct approach to their respective roles was a curious study.

"You don't have to be going anywhere," Von said distractedly, stepping forwards slightly to avoid a passer-by carrying a giant of a case in her arms. "I have a standard to uphold, even when just stepping outside."

"You have a standard? As far as I'm concerned, I'm the one who –"

"Harry."

Harry's smile widened. For all of Von's looming, the downward flicker of his glance was a mixture of fondness, ridicule, and exasperation. "Alright, alright," Harry said. "Work your magic, then."

At his words, Von did just that. Hooking his arm around Harry's shoulders in a one-armed embrace that was more directional than affectionate, he steered them from the studio. It wasn't necessarily typical for stylists to be so hands-on at the scene, but Von was different. He wouldn't allow anyone else to touch his work, and that work extended to his models in their entirety. Or model, as it was, given that he didn't really work on anyone but Harry these days.

"I've got a change-out for you," Von said as they strode down the narrow hallway, skirting past and dodging around the crew members that darted about like scurrying ants. "Dot will probably want to see you before you head off to wherever you're going afterwards, but I'll make sure there's a car waiting for when you're ready."

"Remind me again why you're not my manager?" Harry asked, dodging a crewman himself as they passed into the even narrower hallway leading towards the back rooms.

Von pulled a face. "What, and deprive Dot of her meticulous planning?"

"True. She'd never forgive you if you usurped her."

"She's the definitive dragon-lady."

"She says she has to be, you know." Harry paused alongside the door that had been allocated for him as Von jimmied the lock and led the way inside. "Apparently it's a cutthroat business."

"It is," Von said, holding the door open for him as Harry followed his lead. "If you're only just realising that now then she's clearly shielded you from the worst of it over the years."

That was true. Dot – or Dorothea, which she stoically insisted upon being called – was a force to be reckoned with. Harry's sole agent, because to share supervisors would be a sin and an injustice in her eyes, she was as fiercely protective as a swam of her cygnets with a bite just as sharp. After Gertrude had scouted Harry years before, Dot had swept onto the scene and all but abducted him from the woman's claw-like clutches.

Harry was grateful for that, and not only because he'd seen Gertrude's predatory nature on several occasions in the years since. Dot had saved him in more ways than one, and he could never thank her enough.

She'd found his tutor. She'd culled through his options as if she hadn't considered them all for countless other models in the past, and she was merciless. She presided over the lessons that Harry undertook, directing as often as his tutor had to the point that Harry had often wondered why she didn't simply teach him the arts of the industry himself. Though she didn't model herself, Dot knew how to hold herself. She knew poise, how to pose, how to draw the eye of a camera even when it wasn't trained upon her. More than that, however, she knew how to speak. She knew how to demand, how to work the room, how to appear professionally friendly before swooping in with her provisions and thus inevitably getting her way every single time.

Harry had never modelled before. Before Gertrude had found him, he hadn't even considered it for himself. Why should he care about what he wore? Why should he care what he looked like, how he was viewed by others, how his picture was depicted in a magazine? He'd been subjected to interviews and he hated them, even if he did agree to them. But even then, it hadn't been without a degree of derision. What was the point, after all, in the wake of a war that had killed and irreparably damaged so many? There were more important things than hearing Harry talk.

How Gertrude had swept him into her clutches at all was a situation that Harry still wasn't quite sure he knew the nature of. In one moment, he'd been deliberately withdrawing from her and the offer she'd presented, but in the next, it was as though the world had been tipped on its head. He was joining her in her car. He was travelling alongside her to an unremarkable building in upper-middle class London that she only called _Estella en Ascenso_. He was following her unchallenged past a receptionist and down a hallway towards and unmarked office door. Only when he was sitting before a rail-thin, flat-faced woman who regarded him with all the shrewdness of a hawk did he even begin to grasp where he was.

"A model?" Harry asked, glancing towards Gertrude where she regarded him expectantly from the seat alongside him, her too-wide lips drawn into a complacent smile. "What do you -?"

"What do you think?" Gertrude interrupted him, and though she stared at Harry, she clearly spoke to the woman across the desk from him.

The woman remained silent and calculating for a long moment. When she finally settled back into her seat, still focused and unblinking, her reply ignored Gertrude entirely. "Harry Potter. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Harry said blankly. "Though I have no idea why I'm here."

"Don't you?"

Harry shook his head, glancing briefly towards Gertrude with her incessant smile and then back to the severe woman. "I'm not modelling material. I've never had any experience in doing something like that. What Gertrude said before was…"

Harry caught his lip in his bottom teeth to stem the flow of words. When he considered it, Gertrude hadn't really said all that much of anything. Rather, she'd uttered the words 'potential', offered direction like a lighthouse beaming illumination upon a darkened shore, and Harry hadn't considered all that much beyond it. He felt almost ashamed for how readily he'd leapt at the opportunity.

But then, no one else had seen. No one else had noticed that he was sinking, caught in a web when he should have been freed from every shackle that had bound him his entire life. Gertrude, for all of her disconcerting manner, had seen and she'd acted. Harry had been helpless to her offer.

But now? In an unfamiliar room with a woman who looked like she chewed nails for breakfast and enjoyed it? Now he was second guessing. Honestly, modelling? Such a pointless, superficial, and utterly talentless pursuit? How could he glean meaning from something he had no interest in, let alone any particular experience?

"You've got the face," the woman across the table told him, as though commenting upon the weather. "And you've got the publicity already. That's a step in the right direction that we can use."

"I thought as much," Gertrude said a little smugly.

Once more, she was ignored. "But you're not in shape for it, clearly. And you're completely raw. I've seen your interviews, you know. You've learnt what to say but you've no finesse in how you say it. Not to mention that you haven't the foggiest understanding of how to best present yourself."

Harry should have been offended. A part of him even was a little, though that part was lost before the bland, forward manner of the woman seated across from him as she raised a hand and adjusted the wire frames of her thin, rectangular glasses. "I, um…" He began, then shrugged awkwardly. "Well, I can't say I exactly have much interest in it. I don't ask for the interviews, and the photographers just seem to find me, so…"

"They find him," Gertrude emphasised, as though that meant something. "What do you think?"

The woman tapped one finger rhythmically upon her desk. She regarded Harry with that same hawk-like stare that was different to Gertrude's but no less disconcerting. She pursed her lips slightly before replying. "It could work. It certainly could. But you've got to put in the hard yards, Mr. Potter. Just because you already possess fame doesn't mean that this industry will embrace you with open arms." Her finger gave a particularly forceful tap. "Just be aware of that. If you are – then yes, I believe we can work with this."

Harry didn't really know what to say to that. He didn't know whether he was supposed to agree or dissent to the offer she didn't quite hand him. But he shook her hand. Then Gertrude left. Then room fell silent. And, all of a sudden, Harry found himself in the unyielding hands of Dorothea Picard.

She was ruthless. She was intelligent. She had the sense of humour of a doorknob, but that didn't matter because Dot's skills lay in other, far more impressive areas. To say that Harry's tutor – the woman who taught him when to lift his head as often as to lower it, how to speak with his eyes rather than his voice, how to wear confidence before a camera like a comfortable coat even if he didn't feel it – had made him into the model he became would be an oversight of Dot's sheer, pervasive presence.

Dot taught Harry. She was the one who ultimately taught him everything, despite the tutors and directors, the photographers and co-models that showered him with dismissive, condescending suggestions that became begrudging compliments over time. But most importantly, she taught him that modelling wasn't pointless or trivial because people held superficial appreciation for the pictures they saw. She taught him that those very people were influenced by them even without realising. She taught that, far from being a talentless pursuit, it required far more subtlety and skill than anything Harry had ever deliberately undertaken. He had no 'natural talent' in standing before a camera and making it more than simply standing. Harry had his unwanted fame, but otherwise?

It was a challenge, and one unlike any he had faced before.

Modelling might not have been what Harry had in mind for himself. It might not have been what he'd seen himself pursuing, might not have even been considered a possibility, but he had become what Dot had wanted him to be. She'd never expressly commanded it of him, never instructed him in just what it was that she specifically wanted, but he became it nonetheless.

It was Dot who had, in spite of protocol, somehow managed to have Harry allocated his own room. Such privacy wasn't always afforded to models, nor even often, and he appreciated it. It was small, square, and mostly consumed by a vanity and mirror that took up half of one wall, but it was enough. It was away from prying eyes.

Harry appreciated that privacy even more so when, as soon as he stepped inside the room, Von drew his wand from his pocket and locked the door with a brief flick. He felt himself relax just a little more as he did so.

"Thanks," Harry said, and Von only nodded in acknowledgement of his gratitude. He crossed the small room and, without pause to flick through the articles of clothing, drew a shirt and jeans from the rack just alongside the vanity. He held them towards Harry with an indicative tilt of his head.

Harry accepted the offer and wordlessly stripped himself of the skin-tight shirt and slacks he'd worn for the shoot. Naturally, Von stepped forward to assist him – he could never help himself from becoming involved in the simple routine, even when it was unnecessary – and Harry didn't mind. Whatever modesty he'd once possessed was by and large abandoned years before.

"Sit," Von said after he slipped the casual shirt over Harry's shoulders as though he were a child who couldn't do it himself. Harry didn't really care about that so much anymore, either. "You're not stepping out of this room until I'm done with you."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Harry said, folding the sleeves up to his elbows. "Is it cold out?"

"It's autumn," Von said by way of an explanation.

"Can I have a jacket?"

"Preferably not. There's none that quite suits."

Harry could have objected, but he didn't. He'd learnt just how much Von's stylistic choices meant to him. It was usually better to simply suck up any discomfort of being cold than risk inducing the physical twitch of discomfort Von couldn't quite manage to hide. Just as it was easier to sit and allow Von to work on his hair again than to protest.

"Do you want me to take the charm off your scar?" Von said, standing before him and all but blocking out the glaring brightness of the vanity lights.

Harry shook his head. He rarely took the charm off nowadays, though Von never failed to ask him. "No, it's fine."

"And your eyes?"

Instinctively, Harry rubbed his eyes. They always became a little dry after most of a day beneath the clarifying effects of an Optics Charm. He didn't mind, but a reprieve was always appreciated. "If you could."

"No problem."

The distant murmur of voices beyond the door were all that interrupted the silence as Von worked – for work he did. Harry said in dutiful muteness as his face was wiped clean with cool cleansers and gentle scrubs that Von used as he claimed that 'the delicacy of a real human touch' would always be superior to magic in such cases. He didn't protest when Von proceeded to apply a thinner layer of make-up over immediately after, because there was a standard to uphold even outside of the studio, just as Harry maintained in his Von-appointed clothes. Harry rarely had the opportunity to do it himself; he was capable enough, but Von was better. Von knew it, too.

"I think," Von murmured, for the first time in his ministrations breaking his silence, "that I'll drop by Finlay's tomorrow and pick up some more supplies."

Harry watched as he flicked through his spread of creams, eyeliners, and eyelash curlers. "How come?"

Von pursed his lips as he twirled an pencil between his fingers, frowning. "They're putting out their April catalogue in a couple of days, and I don't like the colour palette I've got on hand for what I saw in the draft that Dot got a hold of for me."

"You don't have to go tomorrow," Harry said, closing his eyes as Von turned towards him and pointedly raised the eyeliner before. "I don't have anything booked for a whole half a week after today."

"I like to be prepared," Von said, his voice a vague murmur with his focus.

"Can't Finlay just send you a batch?"

"Probably, but I like to be the one to do the pick-up."

"Yes, I have noticed that about you. Have you ever thought that -?" He paused at the feeling of glasses sliding onto his nose. "Von. I can put on my own glasses."

"I know you can."

Harry blinked up at him. Von wasn't quite smiling, but there was a touch of amused dimples edging his lips that was impossible to miss. Harry eyed him pointedly and Von shrugged. "Don't look at me like that. Let me coddle you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Too right," Von said with a chuckle. "At least if I'm not going to drop you home today then –"

He cut himself of at a sharp knock on the door. Harry settled himself back into his seat as Von immediately skirted around him and made his way towards it, drawing his wand and wordlessly to unlock it. There was no need to ask who stood on the other side; Dot was the only one who hammered with such fiercely precise entitlement.

Running an absent hand through his fringe, Harry regarded himself briefly in the mirror. Von always did a good job; he had a hand for making his artwork appear natural that few others Harry had happened across could quite managed. It was no wonder Dot liked him. Besides that, he actually had stylistic taste that aligned somewhat with Harry's; despite that Harry never knew what he might find himself outfitted in on any given day, Von knew what suited him and enforced that knowledge to the overwhelming disregard of the other stylists at every shoot.

"Dorothea," Von said from the door, stepping aside like a porter and dutifully closing it behind her as she swept inside.

Typically, Dot didn't acknowledge Von. Instead, she immediately planted herself at Harry's side and, without ceremony, handed him a sheaf of papers. "Read this by Thursday," she said. "I trust I don't need to put a pen in your hand to have you sign it."

Harry wordlessly accepted the parcel without glancing at it. Instead, he watched Dot in the mirror as she flicked through her remaining papers and waited. He knew her well enough to realise when a simple delivery wasn't the whole of it.

Dot was a short woman. Short, thin and spindly like a cricket, yet emanating ferocity. The lines upon her face demanded respect and recognition rather than skepticism for her age, and the grey touching her hair was more a regal crown than a symbol of deterioration. Dot was, in short, a force to be reckoned with, and every aspect of her, from her severe bun to the fitted suit she always wore, emphasised just that.

Harry waited. And waited. And waited. Next to the door, Von settled against the wall, folded his arms, and similarly stood in silent wait. As the pause extended with only the sound of riffled papers for disruption, Dot maintained her silence. That in itself was almost concerning; she was rarely silent without reason.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. Then, "Did I do something?"

"No," Dot said immediately. She folded the papers together and clasped them firmly between both hands. "No, you did well today."

"Thank you?"

"Don't sound so surprised. You know you did."

Harry shrugged. What he knew didn't matter. What was surprising was that Dot had actually complimented him. She was realistic enough to do so when it was true, but occasional enough that it still held an element of unexpectedness. "What's happened?"

Only the slight tightening around her eyes signified something close to anger. "The photographer was duly pleased. He's got a foot in the door with a handful of company's so that will do you good. Even better, I overheard that Tyler Olsen approved of you too. He's a designer we want on our side."

"But?" Harry asked when Dot didn't offer it herself.

Her lips thinned infinitesimally. "But we were intruded upon. Again."

Harry frowned. At the door, Von cursed under his breath. "Again?"

"Again," Dot repeated.

"By who?" Harry asked.

Dot's grasp upon her papers radiated creases from the points her fingers grasped. "I don't suppose you've read much of the _Daily Prophet_ recently?" she asked.

Harry shook his head. "I try not to," he said. The Wizarding world… Harry was still a part of it. The fame of his name, his status, his role as the Saviour of their lifestyle and defeater of Voldemort, was still an attachment that clung to his name regardless of the position he now assumed. If anything, being a model and character of magazines and billboards seemed to enhance it, just as Gertrude had once speculated that it would.

But by and large, Harry found he actually preferred working in the Muggle world. Here, he wasn't a Saviour. Here, he wasn't hailed as a hero as he had been from before he could remember. Here, whatever skills he possessed and performance he played was solely of his own making.

Once, Harry hadn't believed there was such a thing as talent involved in modelling. How wrong he'd been, and how ardently he now embraced dissolution of that belief.

"That's probably for the best," Dot said. "There's a new face in town. Jackdawson, or so he calls himself. He's got his nose out of joint about you."

Harry's frown deepened. "About me?"

"About your immersion in the Muggle world. And your rising fame and notoriety. And," Dot paused, clicked her tongue, and her eyes tightened further. "About me."

Harry immediately felt his hackles rise. Some upstart of a reporter – because it was a reporter, was always a Wizarding gossip-monger that invaded the sanctity of their space – was spouting noise about Dot. It would always be the same in that regard too: Harry should be the figurehead of the Wizarding world, not a figure in the Muggle one. He should be working for the ministry, or he should be an Auror, or he was supposed to be reserving his public appearances and professional time for Wizarding magazines and papers.

And, often loudest of those outcries: he should be managed by a witch or wizard.

Harry hated that most of all. Anyone who could belittle Dot, could think less of her simply because she was a squib, wasn't worthy of any of their time. The derision towards squibs was an aspect of the Wizarding world that Harry had never and would never abide.

"What's his name?" Von asked from across the room as he pushed himself off the wall. His looming returned.

"Should I talk to him?" Harry asked quietly.

"Nose down, both of you," Dot snapped with more force than necessary. "If I'd wanted a show made of his intrusion then I would have done it myself."

"We don't doubt your capabilities, Dot," Von said, stepping to her side. "We're only supporting them to –"

"It doesn't matter," Dot interrupted him as though he hadn't been speaking at all. She didn't spare him a glance as she fixed her gaze upon Harry. "I'm only telling you so you don't find out from someone else and act irrationally."

"Irrationally?" Harry asked.

Both Dot's and Von's flat stares said they weren't fooled by his show of innocent naivety. "I won't tolerate another outburst like last time," Dot said, tight-lipped. "It's not good for your public image."

Harry didn't protest. Once, he might have done, might have proclaimed how public image was nothing and that he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Time and experience had taught him that such wasn't true. It was far from the truth, in fact.

Pursing his lips, Harry sunk into his seat. "Fine. Whatever."

"Don't be petulant."

"I'm not being –"

"You've had a good day today. Don't spoil it."

Harry sunk further into his seat. "Fine," he muttered once more.

A moment of silence followed in the wake of Dot's words. The dampening effect upon what had been a good shoot, a comfortable follow up, the ease of privacy that Harry was rarely afforded these days, was starkly apparent. Dot's return to flicking through her pages was jarringly obvious in its attempt at distraction.

Nonetheless, when she spoke it was with steel emphasis and no room for argument. "We're leaving shortly," she said. "Harry, I know you said you were meeting up with friends this evening but –"

"I know," Harry said. "It's okay. I won't head into the Wizarding world."

"Best not," Von muttered.

"We'll slip out before this Jackdawson can get a clear shot at you," Dot continued. "Complaints?"

"You know I don't have any," Harry said quietly. "Whatever you say, Dorothea."

Dot nodded sharply. Without further comment, she turned and strode towards the door, only to plant herself before it as though waiting for it to open itself. Harry rose to his feet and, with Von at his side, followed after her. Von drew his wand as they did so and, with a murmured Disillusionment Charm, they were slipping from the room and diving into the madness that was post-shoot procedures while bypassing unseeing eyes. It wasn't standard protocol to all but disappear directly after the shoot, but necessity dictated action. Besides, Harry would be seeing the designer the next day for a follow-up. It wasn't like it was necessarily disastrous conduct.

Harry's life was different – different to how it had once been, how he had imagined it would be, how the world expected it should be. It was different because he'd stepped into a role that none but Gertrude had seen him capable of and, rather than sinking, he'd somehow learnt to swim. It was different because with each shot, each captured picture, each advertisement that played on the Muggle television that he acted in, he edged further and further from the Wizarding world.

It was different because he had an agent who wasn't just a manager but a squib, a menace in the modelling industry, a businesswoman of her own right, and the hand that effectively held Harry's assumed reins.

It was different because he had a stylist who wasn't just a stylist but also a bodyguard, a caretaker, a friend of sorts who saw himself as so much more than that and infinitely more entitled.

Harry hadn't foreseen such a life for himself, but then no one else had, either. Surprisingly, yet only surprising for how much he knew that his younger self would have been utterly shocked, he found that he didn't mind it so much. Harry wasn't in charge of his own life, didn't control every aspect of it as his teenage self had so longed for -

But he wasn't lost. He had a direction, a purpose, and even if many might think it menial, or underwhelming, or unsuited for him, Harry knew it was something other. Something more. That something was, really, just enough for him.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Craning his neck, Harry twisted to glance at the closed door of his apartment. As open-plan as it was, there was barely a corner of the wall-less living area that couldn't see every inch of its entirety. Drawing his wand from his pocket, Harry flung a spell at the door.

"It's open," he called, sinking back into the couch and raising the magazine he'd flopped against his chest once more.

The door clattered. As soon as it opened, the sound that had been muffled by magic shattered alongside it in an explosive introduction of his invaders.

"- can't tell me it's the same bloke. No way."

"I can and I will. Would you like photographic evidence?"

"I might just."

"Right on hand for you, you prat. I've got it here."

Ron and Ginny's arguing wasn't unfamiliar. If anything, that they stepped into Harry's flat in the throes of one such argument was typical of them these days. Harry didn't spare them a glance as they continued with their verbal battle.

Hermione, removed from the argument as she almost always was, crossed the room directly towards him and, without waiting for him to move his legs from the couch, flopped down on top of them. Harry grunted but didn't otherwise protest.

"Hey, Harry," she said, absently prodding his knee. "How've you been?"

"Since my house-arrest, you mean?" Harry asked blankly, dropping his magazine onto his chest once more.

Hermione smiled. She was nestling herself into her cushion with the casual entitlement of one who practically owned the place, house and couch included – which she sort of did. In skirt and tights, a scarf looped loosely around her neck, and in the process of kicking her shoes off, she appeared entirely comfortable, entirely subdued, and not at all like the face of activism and equal rights that she'd become in so short a time.

"I think that's a little extreme, don't you?" Hermione said, wriggling into her seat until Harry withdrew his feet just slightly. "You're allowed out, aren't you?"

"Under magical concealment," Harry reminded her.

"What, because you're so bad at them?"

"Just because I've gotten good at bollocks illusions doesn't mean I like using them." Harry pursed his lips and, frowning, absently raised his magazine before him once more. "Bloody Jackdawson. Who'd have thought he'd be such a pain in the arse?"

"He's a real piece of work, isn't he?" Ginny said, her argument with Ron abandoned as she appeared behind the couch. She slung herself over the back, leaning until she was suspended above Harry. Her feet must have been off the ground for how far she hung. "Did you read the article he got published last week?"

"You know I did. You sent me a text as soon as you read it yourself."

"Right," Ginny said, but it was with definite distraction. Even then she was scrolling through the flip phone cupped in her hand, eyes glued to the screen. It was, after all, her latest love child with technology. Harry would never have picked any of the Weasley children to take after Arthur in his love of all things Muggle and mechanical, but there she was. While Arthur still fumbled and blundered blindly, however, Ginny navigated like an expert.

"Is that a new phone?" Harry asked, nodding to Ron as he rounded the couch and took up his usual seat in the single armchair to Harry's right. He glared at Ginny even as he nodded a reply greeting, evidently not as distracted from their argument as she had become.

Ginny grinned down at him, sparing him the courtesy of a brief glance. "It is," she said, flashing the phone towards him. "It's got a camera, you know."

"Does it really?" Harry cocked his head, raising his eyebrows. "That's kind of cool."

"I know, right? This one – it's called a Sprint – it's practically the best on the market at the moment."

"Does it take a good shot?"

"Good enough." Ginny tapped on the phone's keys for a second before turning the screen towards him once more. The image was small, but Harry could make out the lines of the quidditch pitch she'd photographed. "What do you think?"

"Very cool," Harry said, smiling obligingly. "I should get one."

"I could get you one for Christmas," Ginny said, straightening from her overhang. Turning, she took herself to Harry's kitchen with the same presumptuousness that all of his friends adopted. She had her head in his fridge a moment later. "You still haven't told me what you'd like."

"I don't really want anything," Harry called after her. Then he turned his attention back towards Ron. "Hey, mate. How've you been?"

"Hating my sister," Ron said with less heat than the statement warranted. "She's a bullshit artist, and I can't stand her."

"You should have heard them in the car on the way over," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. She tucked a leg up onto the couch, somehow managing to wriggle her toes beneath Harry's own leg so they made an odd yet comfortable tangle together. "I could hardly hear the radio."

"It wouldn't have killed you to miss the news once in a while," Ron said with a heartfelt sigh.

"Maybe for you," Hermione retorted. "I have important things to listen out for."

"Important how?"

"Well, if you listened sometimes, maybe you'd realise what's actually going on. I have to keep an ear out, if only to hear if Alan Duncan is…"

Harry tuned them out, once more raising his magazine before him. His friends visited frequently, and whenever they did they entered his flat in a storm of noise, excitement, argumentativeness, and the comfortable companionship of long-term friends. Harry didn't care that his carefully protected privacy was intruded upon; by Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, it wasn't all that much of an intrusion.

He hadn't seen them in a week. A whole week following the shoot at which some tosser named Erik Jackdawson had gotten his wand in a knot over what Ron termed 'the Harry Potter Debacle'. It was spoken of with many an eyeroll between them, many a sigh and a shaken head, but neither Harry nor his friends denied the truth of Ron's formalisation. It wasn't the first time a wizard-reporter had climbed up on his high horse in what they deemed to be a 'preservation of what was purely of the Wizarding world and not for Muggle usurping'.

Hermione objected because she stood for Muggles, for women, for every other minority group she had a toe dipped in the politics of, and loudly expressed her frustration for such foolishness. Ron objected because he was Harry's mate and, to his credit, even when he really didn't listen to or read the news, he loudly proclaimed his ridicule of anyone who thought they could control Harry or his life.

"You're Harry bloody Potter," he always grumbled. "They're a bunch of hypocrites, they are. One minute they're saying how you're the bee's knees for what you've done for the world and all, and how that gives you the right to do whatever the bloody hell you want, while in the next breath they're saying how you should be for witches and wizards only or – or how you shouldn't be so familiar with Muggles, or – I don't know, some bullshit about it 'not being right'…"

Ron had a long list that he often ran through in Harry's defense. It had become almost funny, and most of the time Ginny mouthed his words in perfect synchrony behind him.

For herself, Ginny was just as vocal. But then, Ginny was vocal about many things, not the least of which being Harry's supposed right to do 'whatever the bloody hell he wanted'. She stood alongside Hermione when Hermione joined her political marches. She was the first to leap to the defense of the underdog should she happen to behold an injustice in the streets. She, unlike Harry, had used the fame that her position in the Holyhead Harpies had afforded her and made her opinions known.

Harry had no doubt that Ginny had said something public about the Jackdawson situation. She usually did.

"… think he's doing a remarkable job, all things considered," Hermione was saying. "I'd like to meet the man."

"So why don't you?" Ron asked. "Surely it's not so hard to get a meeting with an MP."

Hermione sighed with fond exasperation. "You really have no clue of what I do in my job, do you?" she said, her tone making it apparent that she spoke rhetorically.

"Hey, Harry," Ginny called from the kitchen. "Are you eating this beef-salad thing?"

Harry glanced up from his magazine, turning glancing over the back of the couch to where Ginny inspected the sparse collection of containers on the kitchen counter. "The one in the take-out box? It's Thai. I was going to have it for dinner but didn't feel like it when it got here."

"It's still good, then? Did you put a charm over it?"

"No. I forgot."

Ginny regarded it for a moment before shrugging and scooping it up. "Still good," she said with a short nod.

"You're going to die from eating something gone rotten someday," Ron said, shooting her another frown.

"Oh, so you don't want any, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"Okay, then I'll give you some. So long as you admit I'm right about the picture."

Ron was on his feet and stalking towards the kitchen. "Oi, you can't just make those rules –"

"What's that about, then?" Harry asked, returning to his magazine and the supposedly 'stunning' story of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez's wedding plans. It was unremarkable drivel, but he read it anyway, as much for the pictures as the article. J-Lo always had decent fashion sense.

"Oh, spare me," Hermione said, drawing a book from God only knew where and flipping it open.

Harry tipped his head to read the slanting title _A Room of One's Own_ on the cover. "Virginia Woolf? Good choice."

"Thanks," Hermione said, flipping the book to glance at the cover. "I thought so." Then she tossed a glance to where Ron and Ginny were engaged in a fierce debate over which portion of the leftovers was bigger. "They've been insufferable since yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Harry frowned, scratching his memory to recall what she was referring to. His mind conjured a text Ginny had sent him days before. "Wasn't Gin doing a shoot for the end of the season?"

Hermione nodded. Ginny was determinedly open about her exploits; she made a point of keeping Harry updated of when she was having a photoshoot, explaining that she deemed it 'relevant' to him because of his own job. "Yeah," Hermione said. "She burst into my house yesterday afternoon and it was all, 'Hermione, listen to what happened' for nearly an hour before I could actually get the whole story out of her. Unfortunately, Ron was over at the time, so…"

Harry drew himself upright in his seat so that he both extracted his legs from Hermione's weight and sat nearly straight. He tucked his magazine into the cushion behind him. "Visiting for dinner?"

Hermione pulled a face. "You could call it that. I tend to think of it more as helping to diffuse the tension between my parents and I."

Harry offered a sympathetic smile. "It's still bad?"

Hermione shrugged. "More that it hasn't changed. They still won't abide by supposed 'choice', you know?" She sighed. "You know, Harry, I don't envy your situation or anything, but it would almost be nice not to have to…"

"Come out to my conservative Muggle parents?" Harry nodded. He could only commiserate with Hermione; she'd been dragged through the ringer ever since her parents had been retrieved from their brainwashed life in Australia, and it had only grown worse when she'd broken up with Ron who they both seemed to like so much. Worse still when she'd admitted it was largely because she'd realised she had more interest in Ron's sister than she did her ex-boyfriend.

Hermione sighed again. Then she shook her head firmly and visibly shrugged the thought aside. "Anyway. So. The tension was so thick you could carve it, and then Ginny comes charging in waving that fangled new phone around and shoving pictures in my face."

"Pictures plural?"

"She had so many pictures," Hermione said with an emphatic nod. "So many. You'd think the prince of England had shown up at her shoot to see her specifically for how excited she was."

"So…?" Harry trailed off suggestively. "What was it?"

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, a ping sounded from Harry's microwave and seemingly in the same second Ginny was draping herself over the back of the couch once more, cradling her steaming bowl in hand. She grinned wolfishly again as she stuck her fork into the salad. "You'll never guess, Harry."

"Guess what?" Harry asked, glancing between Ginny and Hermione.

"I reckon it's not him," Ron said, appearing at Ginny's side and propping his arse against the back of the couch. He eyed Ginny derisively. "You can't convince me."

"It totally is," Ginny said.

"Blond isn't a determining factor."

"No, but a name is."

"You even said you didn't speak to him directly –"

"I have ears, Ron. I can hear when someone else calls him by name."

Harry glanced between them, raising an eyebrow. "What...?"

"I still don't believe you," Ron interrupted him. "You've 'boy-who-cried-dire-wolf'-ed me too many times."

Ginny glared through a mouthful of beef. "What, that thing with Parkinson?" she managed, her words mangled. "I told you, that was definitely her who did that interview."

"So you say, but I wouldn't believe it of her to become a reporter or something."

"Alright, then. How about that time I went down to that vineyard in Italy and saw evidence of Zabini?"

"That wasn't actual evidence."

"Ron, the name 'Zabini' was written on the bloody label of the wine bottle."

"That's pretty valid evidence," Hermione reasoned.

"Exactly." Ginny stabbed her fork towards Ron. "And thus, with this precedent, my current story should be equally valid."

"Which it kind of is," Hermione said just as reasonably as before.

Ron jabbed a finger at Hermione. "Alright, you, just because you want to get into Ginny's good graces –"

"I do not."

"She does not, Ron. I'm just right."

"I'm still not convinced that –"

"Alright, shut the hell up. It's my house, so I get right of speech. Either spit it out or be quiet."

A momentary bout of silence met Harry's words. Hermione tilted her head towards him. Ron shuffled in his lean against the couch. Ginny eyed him sidelong. Then they all communally snorted and dissolved into snickers.

Harry rolled his eyes before sinking back into his seat. Their behaviour wasn't surprising; if anything, over the years, he thought his small friendship group had deteriorated into far less maturity then they'd had in times of crisis. More often than not, that immaturity manifested as blatant teasing, jibing, and picking a target to be pecked at like ravens upon a corpse. That day it appeared that he was the unfortunate cadaver.

Dragging his magazine from behind his cushion, Harry pointedly flipped it open and lowered his gaze. "Well, what did you all expect me to do?" he muttered. "You can't just dangle a carrot like that and not come to the party with it, Gin."

"Is that curiosity I hear?" Ginny teased, still snickering. "Curiosity from – what was it that magazine called you the other day? The 'aloof and mysteriously distant' Harry Potter?"

"I hate you," he said without sparing her a glance. "You're horrible."

"Aw, come on, Harry," Ron said between snorts of his own laughter. "You're the favourite face of the Muggle and Wizarding world. You know it's our job to make sure you don't get a big head."

"I'm not the favourite face –"

"Harry couldn't get a big head if he tried," Hermione said over him, though she still grinned widely.

Harry frowned at the page propped in his lap and deafened himself to their jibes. They wasn't true, despite the pictures and the articles. Harry was just… Harry. He'd only managed as much as he had because his agent was Dorothea, but he didn't care for fame. He didn't care for the generous wage he earned as well, most of which he funnelled down other channels than into his own bank account, and he didn't care that Von often bemoaned how he found it quite distressing to have to modify his make-up style for 'so many different clients'. It wasn't _that_ many, anyway.

The only thing Harry really cared about was that he was content. Unexpectedly content – or unexpectedly to some Wizarding interviewers that still shook their heads as they called him a 'darling Saviour'. Fashion, photographs, his name in gossip magazines more often than tagged to news headlines… It wasn't necessarily what he'd wanted, but Harry was busying himself and that was satisfying enough.

"It's not like I even care," he muttered mostly to himself as he flipped a page, glancing briefly at J-Lo's smiling face.

"Ah, it's no fun when you give up so easily, Harry," Ginny said with a long-suffering sigh, though she still chuckled as she stabbed at the contents of her bowl. "I'll tell you, I'll –" She paused as the microwave pinged from the kitchen again. "Ron, if you don't want to eat that then I will."

Ron was already striding to the kitchen. "Like hell. It's mine. I'm starving."

"You're getting fat, Ron. You should give it to me instead."

"You're fat."

"This is really good, Harry," Ginny said, swiping a finger into her bowl instead of her fork. She grinned as she stuck it in her mouth, a childlike mannerism that she'd have never been caught dead doing when she was actually a child. "Where did you get it from?"

Harry licked his thumb before turning another page. "I don't know. Dot had someone send it to me."

"Dot's feeding you now?" At Harry's shrug, Gin pursed her lips. Then she reached forwards and plucked at the knee of his slacks. "I thought you must have gone out and gotten it yourself since you're dressed up and all."

"Dressed up?" Harry spared a glance towards his unremarkably clothes. "How do you figure?"

"The fact that you don't even think it's dressed up..."

"Alright, you two," Hermione said as Ron returned to his armchair, bowl in hand. "Even I'm getting sick of it now, and your antics aren't even for my sake."

"Really?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows at her.

She shot Harry as smirk as if to say 'you're the victim this week'. He withdrew his socked toes from where he'd wedged them under her thigh as punishment. She barely seemed to notice, instead turning back to Ginny. "Would you do the honours?"

Ginny still wore a shit-eating grin, but there was definite excitement underlying it now. Even Ron seemed provoked into putting aside their disagreement, hopping to his feet and resuming his lean on the back of Harry's couch. He and Hermione both leant towards Ginny as she flipped her phone open one more, clicked at it a few times, before exclaiming in triumph. "Here. This is definitely the best one I got of him."

She twisted the phone around to him, presenting the bright screen. Harry accepted it. He stared at it for a moment. He cocked his head. He considered it for a moment longer. "Oh. That's…"

"It's not, right?" Ron said, paused mid-bite.

Harry eyed Ginny sidelong. "Why was he there?"

"Hey, Harry –"

"He was one of the photographers," Ginny replied.

"What do you think, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"One of the photographers, or _with_ one of them?" Harry asked, glancing once more towards the phone. "Yeah, that's definitely him. Sorry, Ron."

"What?" Ron all but yelped as he jerked straight from leaning against the couch. A globule of what looked like beef landed on the couch just before Harry's toes, and he absently edged his feet away from it. "That's not –"

"I'm afraid so," Hermione said with a sigh that seemed more delighted than regretful. "If Harry says it's him, then that's definitely Draco Malfoy."

Ron spluttered again. Hermione smiled at Ginny. Ginny flashed her a wink back. And Harry – he ignored them all.

Snapping Ginny's phone shut, he turned his attention back to his magazine. He recognised the model who consumed the majority of spread as he flipped the page, posing with hands clasping the lapels of his jacket. Troy Steele was a bit of an asshole, but he was certainly nice enough to look at.

"So," Ginny asked as Ron still spluttered about 'betrayals' and 'can't believe's, "what do you think?"

"About what?" Harry said, tipping his head slightly as he regarded Troy. He had a good posture. He held the camera well, too. Considering him, when Harry really thought about it, he supposed that maybe Troy's attitude hadn't even been that bad.

"About Malfoy," Hermione prompted. "Being a photographer."

"You still can't convince me," Ron said, as though any of them even cared for his objections anymore. "It's even less likely he'd be a photographer than that Parkinson lower herself to being a rag-mag journalist, or – or Zabini would own a winery, or –"

"Pipe down, Ron," Ginny said, waving a silencing hand at him. "We have a matter of national proportions at stake."

"Did you by any chance bet on my reaction?" Harry asked, turning to the next page. Yes, he abruptly decided, Troy didn't seem so bad after all. He was quite tall, Harry recalled. And he had good cheekbones.

A pause met Harry's question and, when he glanced up at his friends, they were all eyeing one another not quite sheepishly. He didn't call them out any further. After all, what did he care that they bet so immaturely upon just about anything these days? This was one area of their communal teasing that always seemed to be at Harry's expense rather than including him, but he didn't mind. Not really. When they actually had the money to do so, why not? None of them had really had the opportunity to live properly as children in their teenage years.

For Hermione, her investment in betting was a matter of asserting her knowledge and opinion on a subject and proving it with her winnings. For Ginny it was all a bit of fun; she had a piggy-bank sitting in her kitchen expressly reserved for her own triumphs, and she channelled those minimal galleons into her makeshift Quidditch For Tots club. And Ron – he'd never been able to pass up the chance of making money, regardless of his current steady income.

Harry didn't care. He'd never had much care for money, despite never any himself when he lived with his aunt and uncle. Not when he'd had mountains of gold in his Gringotts safe, or his own growing income, either. He simply didn't care. What was the point of having money when he had nothing he wanted or needed to buy? Betting without any other motivator alongside the winnings – it wasn't quite so much fun for him as it was for the rest of them, he didn't think.

What was a little bit fun, however, was denying his friends' expectation of his reaction. It wasn't entirely the reason that he did so, but…

Harry shrugged. "So what? Malfoy's a photographer now. Good for him that he's branching out."

Ron groaned. He raised a hand to his brow as though it pained him, shaking his head, before turning his melancholic attention back to his appropriated dinner.

"Boring," Ginny said, but her grin widened even further. She'd likely won the bet.

Hermione sighed, though she too didn't appear particularly disappointed. "I should know better than to bet against you when it comes to Harry," she said, propping an elbow on the back of the couch and raising an eyebrow at Ginny. "You do know him best."

"I do," Ginny said complacently.

"How did you know he wouldn't kick up a stink about Malfoy?" Ron asked. "Even if he has turned into a bit of a bore –"

"I'm right here, thank you," Harry muttered.

"- after what happened in school between them, I would have thought that at least would have pissed him off a little. I mean, it's Malfoy. The fact that he exists at all is objectionable, let alone that he was a photographer at your bloody shoot."

"He's too indignant to hear you," Hermione said, smirking at Harry. She did drop her hand to rest atop his socked feet in a somewhat affectionate manner, however.

"Yeah, I got that impression," Harry replied, allowing the contact. "Am I really a bore?"

"I don't think you're –"

"I don't think it's that surprising," Ginny said almost in time with her, though she too ignored Harry and Hermione both. "That he's a photographer. It's less surprising than you up and deciding to work in a computer shop when you used to know jack-shit about computers."

"Hey, I grew up with Dad –"

"Which is more evidence that you know jack-shit." Ginny grinned as Ron subsided into grumbles, picking once more at his dinner. Then she glanced at Harry. "Besides, we know that Harry can be distracted from being obsessed with Malfoy. If there's something more interesting, for example. Like when he thought he was actually into me and we started dating –"

"Again, I am right here," Harry said. Hermione patted his feet sympathetically.

"Oh, I know," Ginny said. "I'm just never going to let you forget that you used me as a beard."

"I didn't use you as a beard."

"Harry," Hermione said with another pat that felt somehow more condescending. "Just because you dated doesn't detract from the fact that you're… well, you're very –"

"Very," Ron said with an emphatic stab of his fork.

"Gay," Ginny finished. She reached a hand for his hair to ruffle affectionate, and Harry instinctively swatted at her with his magazine.

"I think you need to revise your understanding of what 'a beard' means," he said. Then he pointed his magazine at Ron. "You should stop supporting them. Shouldn't you be happy that I never actually shagged your sister?"

"Oh, I am," Ron said through an overflowing mouthful. "Cheers for that, mate. I owe you one. Never would have been able to look at you the same if you'd actually up and fucked –"

"Ew, Ron, that's disgusting," Hermione said as, with a violent, underhanded jab from Ginny, most of his mouthful spurted onto the couch. "Close your mouth when you're eating."

"It's her fault!" Ron spluttered.

"You've made a mess of my couch," Harry said with a frown, once more tucking his feet away from the mess. "If that stains…"

"Don't worry, Mr. Neat-Freak," Ginny said, patting his head affectionately again. She didn't miss the swat of his magazine this time. "We'll keep your place spick and span. That's what magic's for."

"Regardless. Ron, go and sit at the counter."

"Yes, Mum," Ron grumbled.

"Hey, I'm your mother in this relationship," Hermione said, already drawing her wand to clean up the splatter.

"That's disturbing on a number of levels," Ginny said before pushing herself up from the couch and starting towards the kitchen. "Harry, I'm raiding your pantry."

"If you find anything, you're sharing," Ron said.

"Finish what you've got first, you pig."

"Hey!"

"Oh, can you put the kettle on for me, Gin?" Hermione asked, raising her voice. "I'll have a peppermint tea, if you would."

As always happened, the conversation hopped, jumped, and flowed easily and naturally onto another subject entirely. Ron obligingly took himself to the counter and perched himself on a bar stool. Ginny riffled through the pantry to the sound of the kettle boiling. Hermione climbed from her seat alongside Harry when she'd cleaned up Ron's mess and drifted idly into the kitchen herself.

And Harry sat. He sat quietly in the comfortable presence of his friends, the company that him every other night more often than not, and returned his attention to his magazine. He liked the laughter, the voices, the half-questions flung towards him without really expecting a reply, but he didn't necessarily feel the need to participate. He loved his friends, but sometimes…

Ron called him a bore because he didn't like to make an event out of anything anymore. Because he didn't like the idea of getting into trouble, or putting a toe out of line, or starting an argument as he once had. There were consequences these days, and not just for Harry but for Dot, and for Von, and for any possible jobs they might both have laid on the table for him. He and Ron were still best mates, but it was a distance that had grown between them that Harry wasn't sure he could erase. He wasn't even sure he wanted to.

Ginny fawned over him like a lovable sister in a way that made him infinitely happy that they'd never actually consummated their relationship. If anything, since he'd come out they seemed to have grown only closer, if in a different way. Closer – but they were still markedly different.

Hermione, too. They'd always been leagues apart in personality, with Hermione headstrong and verbally explosive when it came to her opinions and embodying that even more completely as she dove onto the political scene. It didn't matter that they shared a commonality in their realised sexualities; they were too different for there to be much other common ground between them, and with her not-quite-hidden ambivalence for the modelling industry in spite of her open support of Harry…

He loved his friends' company. He truly did. They were the family he'd never had, and he was never more comfortable than when they were with him, making a mess of his flat and chewing through his pantry with indignant questions of "Why is everything organic?" and "Where's the junk food, you tosser?" They were his most comfortable moments, and yet, somehow, it wasn't entirely…

 _I guess everyone changes in unexpected ways,_ Harry thought to himself.

He turned the page of the magazine and scanned the printed writing, barely attending to what he read. It didn't surprise him to hear that Malfoy was a photographer, or that Parkinson was a journalist, or that Zabini owned a winery three countries away. Maybe four years ago, in the midst of a war and their pain, and hatred, and grief, but now?

Harry hadn't predicted he would become a model. He hadn't foreseen Ron to take to IT with a fervour and passion that rivalled his father's father's love of anything Muggle. He might have suspected that Hermione would become an activist, but that she would be leading a feminist wave as an out-and-proud lesbian? Certainly not.

People changed. It really wasn't so surprising at all.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: The inevitable confrontation, ladies, gentlemen, and others. Enjoy :)

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 _Eighteen Months Later  
(May 2004)_

Draco chased perfection with the compulsiveness of a niffler seeking gold.

He always had. Always, and he hadn't even realised it. He'd sought to be the best, the most respected, the most well-behaved son of any of his parents' friends, and he had been. He'd sought to be the loudest, the most headstrong, and the leader of every game that he and his friends played, because that was the top position and top was his.

The best looking – which Pansy had once agreed with in awe and then with increasing derision – and the smartest. The best, most reputable at school, too, which he'd managed with the exception of a single infuriating Muggleborn that planted herself firmly in his way.

A perfect prefect of Slytherin, which he was. Perfect in his OWL results, which he'd managed. And, even wrought with fear and the sheer, mind-numbing realisation that what he was doing was wrong, a perfect Death Eater. That last was a smear upon his window of shiny white perfection, but the smudge was perfectly black nonetheless.

The tallest of his friends, because it had somehow become a competition. The best flier. The first of his dorm-mates to be chosen on the quidditch team. Perfect dress, perfect hair, perfect performance in his potions and perfect handwriting, which was another source of derision from Pansy that Draco perceived as ineffectually veiled envy.

From where that drive had arisen, Draco didn't know. He didn't really care, but it was curious to consider the nature of one's innate drive. Draco had done just that over the years, latching onto all that presented itself as a potential source of perfection.

Photography fell solidly into that category. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, given that the thrill of his search was utterly delectable – while skill with a camera and lens might be attainable through practice, the perfect picture was far harder to come by.

Leaning over the tray before him, Draco agitated the distilled water within with gentle, deliberate nudges. The glare of the shadowed red light throughout the room, pooling in even the darkest corners, gave the water an uncanny resemblance to blood, but that similarity was one that Draco had long ago learnt to overlook. It was worth it to produce his photographs in such a primal, involved manner.

The dark room was something of a retreat for him. He'd all but stumbled upon it by chance in the early days of his apprenticeship under Dimitri in what had been a curious peek yet deteriorated into both a thorough explanation and a guided tour. At the time, when Draco was still uncertain of involving himself too greatly in Muggle technology, let alone Muggle chemicals, he'd peered into the room flooded with its ruddy light uneasily.

How ignorant he'd been. Draco hadn't understood then that what he saw would be one step closer to the perfect picture he'd made his goal for years.

The room was quiet, humming with the electrical murmur that seemed to pervade every Muggle building, but otherwise unbroken in that quietness. It was cluttered with tables, counters laden with trays, and yet more counters boasting cupboards of bottled chemicals and draws of tools. No less than five sinks lined one wall, their white porcelain dyed as red as the white walls, and those walls themselves were hidden behind pictures of all sizes of an endless mosaic disrupted only by an unremarkable clock wedged in its midst.

Draco loved it. He never would have thought it possible to become partial to something so completely Muggle in nature but he loved it. Chemicals and chemistry wasn't potions, but it was close enough and unexpectedly nostalgic. Never was Draco more content than when he worked in the dark room that felt more and more like his, despite being in a building hosting experts in the field.

Because it was. It was his. Every employee of importance in the building had come to understand that, too.

As Draco eased one of his prints from the tray to rinse it under the sink, the clock ticked. As he peered at the image beneath the gentle flow of water, sweeping it clear of chemicals, that clock was his only company. And as he worked to squeegee the paper and rid it of the remaining droplets of water, that clock remained the only interruption of his work.

Until his phone buzzed in his pocket.

"I'm not answering," Draco muttered, more to himself than to whoever lay on the other end of the call. "Leave a message."

The phone continued to buzz. When it stopped, Draco had already hung his print to dry from the strings criss-crossing the room above head-height before moving his remaining trays.

His phone buzzed again.

"I said leave a message."

Again. An incessant buzz.

Sighing, Draco paused in his hanging to glare down at his pocket. Muggle phones were certainly convenient, and far more usable than Patronus messages or Floo calls, but they always seemed to catch him at a bad time. Granted, most times were bad in Draco's opinion, but even so.

Stepping away from his prints, Draco peeled his gloves off with a snap. He tossed them towards the bin in the corner of the room with pin-point accuracy as he extracted out his phone. Flipping it open, he grunted his annoyance. "What do you want?"

 _"_ _Ah… Mr. Malfoy? This is Mr. Malfoy, yes?"_

"It is." Draco took himself towards the sink and absently turned the tap on, wedging his phone between his shoulder ad his ear. "What do you want?"

From the voice – unfamiliar and youthful – it was likely an intern given the regrettable duty of contacting him. Draco had been made a full and independent employee of the company months ago, a position he was already considering dropping in pursuit of freelancing, but even with only months under his belt, he knew he had a reputation for one-track-mindedness. Dimitri made a running joke of it.

"You don't want to disrupt him when he's working," he'd said to their crew time and time again. He always wore that little smile, a smile typically in place of words as Draco had long ago discovered. "He'll bite your nose off if your ruin a shot for him."

 _And rightly so_ , went unsaid. If there was one commonality between Draco and Dimitri, it was their commitment to their work. Dimitri didn't like to be disrupted either, and even if he didn't 'bite the nose off' of any who sought to interrupt him, his subordinates and many an assistant knew him well enough not to try.

 _"_ _Sorry to disturb you, sir,"_ said kid on the other end of Draco's line. _"I'm just relaying a message from Mr. Nilsson. He said you'd want to be told about this one right away."_

Draco paused with his hands still under the tap. "What is it?" he asked lowly.

 _"_ _A meeting, sir. Just a meeting, was all he said."_

Draco chewed on the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to leave in the middle of his work, but… Well, he was almost done. And whoever the kid was had it right; Draco didn't drop his work for just anyone, but Dimitri was one of the few that warranted it.

Clicking his tongue, Draco flicked the tap off with a sharp, almost aggressive twist. Frowning at his hanging prints – he always did like watching them in the process of developing – he snatched the role of paper towels of the counter alongside him. "Fine. Tell him I'll be there in a few."

 _"_ _Thank you, sir,"_ the kid said, and the phone shut off with a beep. For a moment, when Draco drew it away from his ear, he considered dropping his phone into the bin as well. Only his begrudging acceptance of the need for being contactable, a need that an aspiring freelancer definitely held, stayed his hand.

With another click of his tongue, he turned and strode from the room.

Monday didn't find the halls of the Building Eight as empty as they rightly should have been at lunch hour. After all, the beginning of the week was always crazed, overrun with workers who had neglected their duties over the weekend or had pushed back Friday's work under the false sentiment that "I'll get it done easily enough next week". They never did, but Draco didn't need the foolishness of their collective example to know better. He would never be so lax.

Dodging around the scurrying workers, most in soaring high-heels or dress shoes buffed to a shine, Draco made his way towards the elevator. He packed himself in the back corner, arms folded against the press of harried workers with their own arms laden beneath stacks of folders and papers, and forced his way out as soon as the doors opened upon the seventeenth floor.

Dimitri's office was unchanged from how Draco had first seen it years before. One of the few photographers granted not only his own rooms but a suite adjacent to a studio for his own personal use, it breathed prestige and superiority in a way that Draco hadn't initially realised. Regardless, he let himself through the door with barely a knock and swept through the studio to the office itself, pausing only as he reached the doorway.

He rolled his eyes at the sight that present itself. "Urgent my arse," he muttered to himself.

In the room, the conversation ceased. Dimitri glanced towards Draco, nodding his head in greeting, but it was his conversation partner that caught Draco's attention. She turned in her seat at the low sofa with the languid grace of entitlement and deliberately crossed her legs in the same motion. How she always managed to look like a presiding tigress, Draco would never know.

"Draco, dear," Pansy said, a smile spreading across her purple lips. "Lovely of you to join us."

"You interrupted my printing," he said, leaning against the door frame and raising an eyebrow. "Did you have to?"

"I do so hope that he's not so rude to all of your clients," Pansy said with a sidelong glance towards Dimitri. "He must be dwindling your business significantly."

Dimiti's typical smile arose. "Only the best," he said. "I actually learnt to use his frankness as a means of determining whose demands were best to consider."

"Frankness? Well, that's one way of putting it that I haven't heard before." Pansy shook her head, her immaculate curtain of hair swishing around her chin. "You must be happy to be finally rid of him, Dimitri."

Draco let them talk. Pansy rarely, if ever, showed up at Dimitri's studio anymore, though over the years she'd had far more than a foot through the door of Draco's education. From curiosity, or so she called it. Draco thought it was more akin to nosiness, but he couldn't complain. She'd given the opportunity that he'd grown to so appreciate in the first place, after all.

But if she was at the studio… "Have you got business with Dimitri, Pansy?" Draco asked, for if she'd wanted to speak to Draco directly she would have Floo-messaged him. Or called by phone, as was becoming increasingly typical of her.

"Of a sort," Pansy replied. "Though I find myself swayed by suggestion, as it were."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," Dimitri said, "how would you feel about accepting a shoot at _Syren_?"

Draco blinked. For a moment, he was duly grateful that he was already leaning against the doorframe for support. He almost couldn't believe his ears, and Dimitri's words took a moment to properly make sense. _Syren_ was… well, it was young, up-and-coming, and largely grey when considering future expectations for the magazine itself, but it had more than made a name for itself. Swiftly, efficiently, and in an unexpected explosion of popularity. Draco had taken as much interest in it as any other magazine – which was to say that he'd brought half a dozen copies over the past six months and read each issue back-to-back – and they were clearly doing something right.

More importantly, however - or more importantly to Draco - _Syren_ was one of the first Muggle-Wizard collaboration companies to step into the modern media industry. There had been others, smaller and less successful, but this was different. This was bigger. This was impressive.

To think that Pansy had someone managed to scoop herself a spot for an article in its pages as Draco was rapidly becoming aware she had - it was incredible.

Shaking himself from his stupor long enough to register that Pansy was very distinctly smirking, Draco frowned at Dimitri. "Would _I_ like to?"

"Yes," Dimitri replied with a placid smile.

"Not yourself?"

"He assures me that you're more than competent," Pansy said, smirk still firmly affixed. Draco shifted his frown towards her, but she ignored the glance. "And, though I hesitate to consider you'd be up to Dimitri's standards, I think that certain elements of _Syren_ lend itself to you."

Draco's frown became a glare, but he didn't protest. He couldn't, not with Dimitri – oblivious but surprisingly perceptive Dimitri – in the room to pick up on any whisper of suspicious suggestion. Dimitri was remarkably sharp-eared when it came to magical slips-of-the-tongue.

Even so, Dimitri hummed thoughtfully before saying, "You have shown a touch of interest in it, Draco. Why is that, exactly?"

"It's popular," Draco replied smoothly. "I would be foolish to not be interested in it, especially with how rapidly its growing. I'm not so satisfied in my position here that I'd not grasp any employment opportunity at _Syren_ with both hands."

Far from put-out, Dimitri's smile grew faintly approving. He nodded slightly. "Then this will be a good opportunity for you."

"An opportunity that you're giving me?"

"Yes. So don't mess it up. Show them what you've got."

Draco nodded slowly before switching his gaze towards Pansy. "Speaking of opportunities, how did you land one at _Syren_? You're not that well connected."

"If you truly believe that, then you do me a disservice," Pansy said with a sniff that didn't appear all that dissatisfied. She seemed like a cat who'd gotten the cream for her own emanating satisfaction. "I have connections."

"Hm."

"But more than that, I'm excellent at my job." Pansy arched her eyebrows pointedly. "Aren't I, dear?"

Draco could have fallen into their usual exchange. He could have denied her, given her proof of the validity of his denial, scarce as it was, and she would have rebuffed him. They could have escalated their debate into verbal blows that could have shaken the whole building.

But Draco held his tongue. They had a witness, after all. With a momentary glance towards Dimitri that he knew Pansy would interpret as "not now, later", he allowed himself a nod. "Indeed you are."

"Why, thank you."

"When you fish for your own compliments, it doesn't require gratitude, Pansy." When Pansy only smiled her feline smile, he shook his head. "Well, then? You've a job booked, I take it?"

"That I do," Pansy said, uncrossing her legs and rising fluidly to her feet. In her impractically high shoes, she was of a height with Draco himself when she clicked her way to his side. "This afternoon is our first meeting with the subject, in fact."

Draco frowned. "So soon? You've given me such little notice, Pansy, I can't be expected to –"

"Oh, pipe down, Draco," Pansy said, waving a hand in his face. "It's just a meet and greet. Agencies like that, you know, and _Syren_ apparently does, too. It's part of their policy."

She didn't need to expand upon the why; Draco was more than familiar with the delicacy of dealing with both the Wizarding world and Muggles in the same environment. He only rolled his eyes as though in exasperation, which drew a knowing smile from Dimitri as Pansy turned towards him. "Thank you for your time, Dimitri. And my apologies, I suppose, for losing you a job."

Dimitri raised a hand like a shrug. "Not at all. I'm more than happy to give you my apprentice."

"Apprentice no more," Draco reminded him, because he couldn't help himself. He'd graduated from that role. He'd graduated perfectly.

"So it seems," Pansy said with a humming chuckle. Turning, she beckoned Draco with a flick of her finger. "Come along, then, cameraman. I'll treat you to lunch before we head over there."

"Call me cameraman again," Draco muttered, obligingly turning to follow her, "and I swear you'll regret it."

Pansy only laughed as she clopped through Dimitri's empty studio. "Trust me, Draco, after the opportunity I've landed you today, you'll be the one regretting every slight you've ever paid me."

Draco doubted that. He doubted it very much. Nonetheless, with barely a nod of farewell to Dimitri, he followed in Pansy's wake as she swept from the room.

* * *

The room Draco found himself in was as sharp-edged and severe as the woman who inhabited it. All dark walls, pointed shelving, and filing cabinets pressed flush against the walls. Even the wide desk seemed somehow threatening, its breadth a barricade, as though to intimidate any potential threats away from the woman sitting behind it.

Not that she appeared to need any help. Draco didn't think he was someone easily cowed, though he'd learnt years ago when it was best to back down and bow his head. When one's life and that of one's family was on the line was usually a good place to start. Draco didn't put the woman across from him quite on par with the likes of the defeated Dark Lord or his own deranged aunt, but it came surprisingly closer than he would have anticipated.

It was even more surprising for the fact that she wasn't a witch. That much was made starkly clear from the moment Draco followed Pansy into the room.

"You'll not use a lick of magic within these walls," she'd said by way of introduction. "If you do, you'll be out before you can regret drawing your wand."

Draco had already been in a disgruntled mood. Pansy, for all of her taunting and tempting, dangling the potential carrot of her contract with _Syren_ , had been close-lipped since they'd left Dimitri and Building Eight behind them. "All in good time," she'd said when Draco posed his questions with increasing demand. "Hold your hippogriffs, Draco. All in good time."

To say that Draco was miffed would be an understatement. He didn't like to be kept in the dark. He didn't like not knowing what was going on, even if it was in a situation far less deadly than those he'd been forced into as a terrified teenager. A pre-interview meeting wasn't exactly the same thing, but he nevertheless disliked it.

"You could have at least told me we weren't going to _Syren_ 's head office before I'd agreed to come along," Draco muttered as he followed Pansy out of the taxi.

Turning from waving the driver off, Pansy shot him a dubious glance. "What, you wouldn't have come if you'd know beforehand?"

Draco regarded the unremarkable building before him. It was about twenty floors too short to be a head office, in his opinion. He'd scarcely needed Pansy to confirm his suspicions. "I could have prepared myself better," was all he said in reply.

Pansy snorted as she stepped past him. "Prepare yourself for what? It's not like the real interviewing process is even starting today."

That was another factor that contributed to Draco's annoyance. Apparently, Pansy wasn't even starting her interview that day, was barely partaking in the unofficial meet-and-greet, to say nothing of Draco's shooting. If her vague suggestions were anything to go by, he wouldn't be starting for several weeks.

"I'm not shooting immediately?" Draco had asked as he'd followed Pansy from Building Eight.

"No," she'd replied shortly.

"So when do I start?" he'd asked as they'd crawled through midday traffic.

"When we've worked out the timetable," was all she'd offered.

"Will I get assistants or am I entirely independent?" he'd asked as they turned into the plain street that housed the short building, barely noticing the speckling of shops that dotted the spaces between office buildings. "Who am I working with?"

"We'll work it out soon enough."

"Where am I shooting at?"

"We'll work that out later, too."

"Do I get a contract? What's the duration like? How many hands will I have to help -?"

"Calm down, calm down," Pansy had interrupted him as the car drew to a halt. "This is just the preliminaries, Draco. Try and enjoy the preparation before you become too invested in the actual journey."

Draco had huffed, settling back into the taxi's threadbare seat, and folded his arms. "Would you at least tell me who it is, then?" he'd asked for the umpteenth time.

That time, Pansy had only smiled cryptically and replied just as vaguely. "Not a Muggle. You should be happy with that."

To be truly honest, Draco didn't care. He didn't care whether he shot a Muggle or a wizard or witch. Despite his past distaste for them that rivalled Pansy's, he'd grown to care little for such things. If anything, at times Muggles were even preferable to work with; they didn't eye him as though he was about to throw himself into a frenzy of preaching about his 'murdered Dark Lord', or worse, as though he were a dangerous viper that needed to be stomped out. The first time he'd been told of that assumption by one such employer had been a rude awakening, if not entirely unexpected.

Draco grumbled and huffed at Pansy's vagueness throughout the entire trip. He was still cursing her under his breath when she strode to the glass door of the office building and let herself in. The foyer was empty but for a receptionist who eyed Pansy through sensible glasses as she approached her.

"A meeting at three o'clock," Pansy said. "Parkinson."

The receptionist nodded expectantly, glancing briefly at the chunky computer at her side before turning to an open planner spread across the desk at the other hand. "Of course," she said. "Ms. Picard will be with you shortly."

Which she was. 'Ms. Picard' hadn't wasted any time in all but hauling Draco and Pansy into her office barely minutes later. After gesturing to a pair of seats in offering to the both of them, coupled by her short, severe forbiddance of the use of magic in her company, she settled straight-backed into her chair and regarded them both with slightly narrowed eyes. She was intimidating, that was certain, but Draco found her less aversive than she could have been; he might even prefer working with Muggles these days for the absence of their stigma against him, but there was a certain liberty to be felt with Wizarding company.

"Pansy Parkinson," Picard finally said. "It's good of you to meet in such circumstances."

"Not at all," Pansy replied with a benevolence Draco knew was a refined facade. "I had an opening in my day, and your office isn't so far out of my way."

Picard nodded curtly. "Nonetheless, it's appreciated. This situation… _Syren_ has been making a mess of things, to say the least."

"It is somewhat delicate," Pansy said, nodding.

"You acknowledge it as delicate and even difficult, and yet readily agree to step up to the challenge?"

"Well, I'm not entirely altruistic in my acceptance of your offer."

"No, perhaps not. I've no doubt it will do your name a degree of good in the long run, if not so greatly in the near future."

Pansy's smile was small but fierce. Unexpectedly so, Draco thought, because despite her initial benevolent performance, she rarely showed such sincerity. Rarely to never, in Draco's experience. "Then we're of a like-mindedness. I doubt the assumption of your own role is entirely pure of intention either."

Draco glanced between them with only his eyes. There was something going on here. Something that Draco wasn't partial to. He was about to ask, to demand an answer for ignorance, but Picard turned sharply towards him a moment later.

"You too," she said. "Don't think I've overlooked you, Draco Malfoy."

Draco's eyebrow twitched. "You have a problem with myself but not Parkinson?"

"I didn't say I have a problem."

"Your attitude speaks differently."

Picard grunted. She didn't fidget, didn't even blink through her fierce stare, and yes, Draco might consider her intimidating, but she was also guileless. She didn't plaster a smile upon her face and preach that she'd 'accepted the wrongdoings of a sinner of the past' as Draco had been apparently been accepted countless times before. He didn't think she was likely to hiss and spit allegations as soon as his back was turned, either, nor deteriorate into childish glares and sneers of distaste.

"What are your intentions, Malfoy?" she finally said, lips thinned but apparently not quite disgruntled.

Draco's eyebrow rose further. "My intentions?"

"It's no secret that this job will put you in the limelight. In the favourable limelight, if also an eventuality rather than an immediate reward. Your name will be attached to Parkinson's articles, to say nothing of your photographs, and every single person in the Wizarding world will see them. I can assure you of that much."

Draco stared at her. _She assumes I know what my position entails_ , he thought, fighting the urge to glare at Pansy. Could she have possibly managed to leave him any further in the dark if she'd tried? Given it was Pansy, she'd likely actively tried to do just that; she was nothing if not a sadist who got an insurmountable amount of pleasure from distressing those around her. But Draco had thought himself immune to her ploys.

A glance at her sidelong found her expression deceptively mild. He was under no allusions that his speculations were correct.

 _I don't even know who I'm bloody well shooting,_ he growled to himself. Then he set his jaw. _Well, two can play at this game_.

Settling comfortably back into his chair, Draco casually extended his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles. "You seem to be under the impression that I would consider such publicity a bad thing," he said.

"Isn't it?" Picard tilted her head. "You don't think recrimination will be cast upon you?"

"Doubt and incrimination is already cast upon me. What worse could happen?"

"Death threats," Picard replied with unnerving promptness. "Even attempted enactments of such threats."

Draco blinked slowly. "I take it that such extremes have befallen photographers in my position before?"

Picard didn't need to nod. "And interviewers," she said, glancing to Pansy. "You're far from safe, and I can't offer you protection. It will likely be only worse for you both, given your questionable history."

"Questionable is one way of putting it," Pansy said without inflection.

"Will we be compensated?" Draco asked.

Picard settled her gaze back upon him. She had eyes like a hawk. "On top of your rates?"

 _I don't even know how much I'm being paid,_ Draco almost hissed. But he only nodded. "You've just indicated that my life may be jeopardised. Of course I'd demand compensation."

A little unexpectedly, Picard nodded without further delay. "Of course. I wouldn't consider overlooking it."

Draco could almost feel Pansy smirking at his side. He pointedly ignored her, just as he ignored the urge to swing a kick at her ankle. "What do you project is the likely duration of this endeavour?" he asked instead.

"At least two months," Picard replied. "And that will just be for the initial collection."

 _Initial? How many are we talking?_ Draco was torn between concern and satisfaction at the prospect; it was clearly well paying, with a prominent figure in the Wizarding world and likely the Muggle world too, and it would proceed for an extended period. How could he not be satisfied? But then again…

 _Well, it's not like my life hasn't been at risk before,_ he thought a little grimly, but shrugged the thought aside as Pansy spoke up.

"Will we be holding a meet-and-greet today, then?" she asked. "To see where everyone stands?"

Picard grunted lowly again. Despite her diminutive stature, it didn't seem strange coming from her. "I think 'meet-and-greet' is an improper use of terms."

"Then perhaps a friendly catch up," Pansy said with a hint of a smile.

In reply, Picard gave a brief nod before reaching for the handset in the corner of her desk. She tapped out a short series of numbers, pressing it to her ear. Draco watched her blankly, determinedly ignoring Pansy's side-eye, and for the first time actually hoped that she had some Empathy Magic or even secondary Legilimancy skills so she would feel his intentions.

 _I'm going to kill you when we get out of here,_ he thought as clearly as he could, all but ignoring Picard when she spoke with a "where are you at the moment? Nearly here?" _You won't have to worry about any death threats on the job, because I'll tear you a new one for being such a snide, conniving bitch. I'm one of the only bloody friends you've got, you –_

"- tell Harry to come straight in when he does, if you would."

Draco's stream of mental curses screeched to a halt. It was all he could do to keep his blank mask firmly affixed to his face. To look at Pansy would have shattered it, so he stared at Picard instead. Stared without seeing, because –

 _Harry?_

"They're just around the corner," Picard said, settling the phone down on its hook.

 _Surely she doesn't mean…_

"Wonderful," Pansy said, almost purring. She was clearly enjoying herself far too much.

 _But then, what other Harry would be… could possibly be…?_

Picard rose from her chair, though Draco barely noticed. "If you'll excuse me for one moment, I'll have a word with him before you meet."

 _You fucking bitch._

This time, when Picard stalked from the room and closed the door behind her, Draco swung towards Pansy with the full force of his glare. "I hate you," he growled.

Pansy only smiled languidly. She even went to far as to almost recline in her chair, legs extending before her. "Is that delight I can hear in your voice, Draco, dear?"

"You didn't tell me?" Horrifyingly, Draco's voice was slightly choked, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care at that moment. "You didn't think to let me know that when you all but dragged me into a job –

"Dragged?"

"- that it would be of Harry bloody Potter?"

"You know, you should be thanking me," Pansy said, crossing her ankles and flicking a finger towards him. "It's a ridiculously well-paid job."

"You –"

" _Syren_ is rolling in fame at the moment, both in the Wizarding world and the Muggle one."

"How can you -?"

"It's bound to be long term, because 'initial collection'?" Pansy snorted. "Picard knows that when the world gets a taste of him they'll want more. There's bound to be another, if not more still, and definitely one absent of all the necessary tiptoeing around magic that the Muggle version will have. More than that, you're the one who'll be doing the shots. It will put you out in the open. You'll be snatched up instantly."

"Yes, but a predator taking offence that an ex-Death Eater is working so closely with the beloved Saviour," Draco grumbled. Seething, he hunched into he seat. His mind was awhirl, and not because Pansy spoke fallacies. She was right. This job would open doors for him.

It wasn't because it would be long-term either, and that he wanted to stretch his wings a little after his apprenticeship. He would be an utter fool to pass up the job opportunity, not only shooting for _Syren_ but a bloody icon like Harry Potter.

It wasn't even because of what would definitely be threats flung his way, most likely from the Wizarding community but possibly from envious fans of Harry Potter the Muggle model, too. That mattered, but it wasn't unfamiliar to Draco.

No, what really unsettled him, what really knocked him from his stable footing, was…

"I've done you a favour," Pansy said, flicking her finger at him once more. "Don't pretend you're not hungry for it. You've wanted to shoot Potter for how long now?"

Draco couldn't look at her. It wasn't really a secret – or it was, but one they shared. Draco couldn't hide that, since the moment he'd first stepped into Dimitri Nilsson's office, from the second he'd seen Potter's picture and even before he'd realised who he was, he'd wanted to photograph him. That almost-perfect shot was the closest to absolute perfection that Draco had ever seen.

He'd unwittingly made it his mission. Unfortunately, Pansy knew that.

Draco had been obsessed with the legend of Harry Potter as a child. He'd lived with the understanding that he was going to have him as his friend years before he'd attended Hogwarts. When they'd become rivals, Draco didn't hide the fact that his obsession hadn't died. It had taken a turn for hatred, true, with a healthy dose of rivalry tossed into the mix, but it persisted.

Even in sixth year, when Draco had been so entangled by the threat of the Dark Lord, the threat to his family, to himself, he hadn't forgotten. Every class, every time he saw Potter, he couldn't help but wonder. He couldn't help but wish for the 'good old days' when they'd truly been rivals, when he'd hated him as reflection in the years since found he probably hadn't hated quite so deeply. Those moments, their brief bouts of conflict – they were surprisingly calming. An unexpected buoy in the turbulent sea that Draco's life had become.

Harry Potter had been a part of Draco's life long before he'd ever seen him with his own two eyes. More than that, after the war, after their rivalry had been all but extinguished in the face of something so much bigger…

 _A hand appeared in Draco's line of sight. A hand with a wand, and not a word about either of them._

 _Draco blinked, unable to quite raise his head from where it hung, to unclasp his hands from where they were clamped around back of his neck, to lift his elbows from his knees. The room was echoing with voices, bodies moving and curses of disgust aplenty, but he didn't care. Draco's attention hauled itself from his despair towards the wand, because he knew that wand. Of course he knew it. He'd held it in his own hand countless times before._

 _"_ _What do you want, Potter?" Draco said quietly. He almost winced at how his voice crackled, but he couldn't summon the energy to care all that much._

 _"_ _It's yours."_

 _Draco stared._ I know, _he thought._ I know it's mine _. But he couldn't bring himself to take it. "Not anymore."_

 _"_ _Bullshit."_

 _Flinching slightly, Draco raised his eyes – just his eyes – towards Potter. Potter, who he'd been obsessed with the possibility of since he was a child, who he'd hated, who he'd even feared at one point. Potter, who looked tired, and worn, and scruffy as ever in his typically ill-fitting clothes. He looked like he'd been the one who'd just been on trial for his freedom instead of Draco._

 _But, as he always did, he stared at Draco with an unwavering gaze. Whether it was with anger, frustration, confusion, or even plea as Draco had seen only the once, Potter was always unwavering. And his eyes – Draco had hated Potter, but he'd always been a little enchanted, too. When Potter stared at him, it was impossible not to look back.  
_

 _"_ _Bullshit," Potter said again, just as quietly and blandly as before. He extended Draco's wand towards him just a little further. "Just because I took it from you doesn't mean it's not still yours."_

 _"_ _That's not how wands work, Potter," Draco muttered, lowering his gaze to the ground once more. He wanted to take his wand. He wanted it desperately, and he'd had felt naked without it, even with his mother's as a temporary replacement. He'd never fully appreciated the loyalty of a wand until he'd had to borrow one instead of using what was truly his._

 _"_ _I've heard about that," Potter said. "Yeah. I've heard a lot about that lately. But still…"_

 _Draco didn't glance up again, but he couldn't help eyeing his wand sidelong when Potter placed it on the worn length of bench alongside him. The straight rod of wood was two shades paler than that of the seat._

 _"_ _Consider it yours again," Potter said, as if it was that simple. "Consider this me giving it back to you."_

 _"_ _You can't just do that," Draco said, unable to drag his stare from the wand._

 _"_ _I can. I am. I don't want it anyway."_

 _"_ _You –"_

 _"_ _I've always only wanted my own."_

 _With an effort, Draco tore his eyes from the wand towards Potter. As soon as he did, he was caught by Potter's stare once more. Unwavering. Stubborn, but not confrontational. How he managed both at once, Draco didn't know, and he almost asked._

 _Instead, what slipped out was, "Why?"_

 _There were so many possibilities in that single word. Why are you giving this to me? Why would you dare to? Why are you being kind, even if you don't directly mean to be? Why, why, why?_

 _Whether Potter heard any of the surplus of questions, Draco didn't know. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder, hand absently reaching into his back pocket and extracting his own wand. Not the Elder Wand, Draco saw. His own, the one Draco had seen him use for years. The one distinctly pale and made more so for the sharp contrast with his fingers._

 _"_ _Why not?" was all Potter said in reply._

That was it. That was all of it. Draco didn't thank Potter, and he didn't have the chance after Potter turned and walked away, weaving through the crowd that skittered aside and practically parted for his passage anyway. He didn't talk to Potter after that at all, for that matter. He hadn't been close enough, and he hadn't even seen him but in photographs.

And those photographs. Draco hadn't really believed in inspiration before he'd become a photographer. Logic, reasoning, sense, and fulfilment – that was what mattered. It was what drove everything, from his studies and his commitment to quidditch to the dedication he had to his family. Inspiration, a 'muse', was a flouncy, flourishing word that Draco hadn't really believed.

Maybe that was simply because he found his own just yet? Or at least not one that he let himself acknowledge.

"Don't scowl like that, Draco," Pansy said, breaking into his grumbling thoughts. "It's unbecoming. Besides, you don't want to scare Potter away as soon as he steps through the door."

Draco hadn't even realised he'd been scowling, but he didn't vanquish it as he raised his gaze to glare at Pansy. "Shut the fuck up."

"Tut, tut. You're in a bad mood."

"He wouldn't scare that easily." Folding his arms, Draco narrowed his eyes further. "If anything, he'll be just as likely to hex us as shake our hands."

Pansy seemed not in the least deterred by his blatant hostility. She propped an elbow onto the arm of her chair, her chin resting in her cupped hand. "Oh, I doubt that. Surely you've heard the stories of him. I've not doubt you've even deliberately sought them out."

 _Shut up,_ Draco didn't say, because to do so would be as good as admitting he had. "Stories can be biased. You'd know just how much if you had any kind of talent in your interviewing skills."

Pansy chuckled. She actually chuckled rather that raising her hackles indignantly. "Of course. But I also have the ability to sift through the bullshit and see the truth that lies beneath."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You're a gossipmonger, Pansy. You don't understand the meaning of truth."

"Perish the thought, I know only truth. Just as I know that, far be it from the snooty, aggressive boy-hero he was, I can most certainly assure you that those stories in the papers? They're quite accurate."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"What, you don't think he's mellowed out? That he's actually amiable? That he knows how to talk before a camera just as well as he can pose for one?" Pansy's eyebrow arched. "I know you've noticed that, at least, Draco."

Draco almost replied. He almost denied her, which would have been a mistake, for that too would be admitting Pansy's correctness. But he didn't get the chance before the door was swinging open from where it had clicked shut at Picard's departure.

 _Picard? How did I not bloody well recognise the name Picard?_ Whether or not he was 'obsessed', Draco should have recalled the name of goddamn Dorothea Picard.

Such scolding slipped from his thoughts in an instant, however, and Draco barely saw Picard at all as she was followed into the room by a pair of men. One – tall, broad, with a perfectly bald head and so well-dressed that he must have spent hours in the sole company of his wardrobe that morning – Draco discarded almost immediately. He wasn't important. What was important was Potter.

Picard said something. Pansy replied. Draco hardly noticed. He pretended he did, pretended he cared, but he couldn't, because seeing Potter? Seeing Harry Potter in the flesh rather than in the static confines of a photograph, regardless of how sublime that picture was?

He looked almost short next to the bald man, but not in a diminutive way. He looked a little dressed-down, too, in simple jeans that seemed fit him like a second skin and a dark jacket with sleeves tugged down to his knuckles hands, but it didn't detract from him. Not in the least. If anything, it only seemed to enhance him.

Not scruffy anymore but artfully groomed. Not sagging beneath the weight of the world but comfortably casual and comfortably straight, as though the world couldn't touch his shoulders if it tried. A small smile, a mild glance around the room, and Potter's gaze slowed on Pansy only to brush past her. Draco met his stare and couldn't look away.

What was it about his eyes? Why were they so goddamn captivating? Draco didn't care what colour they were, but he noticed. He noticed too well, had always noticed – the pale green, a whirlwind of shades – but only ever Potter's. He didn't even think he could rightly say what colour Pansy's eyes were, a fact that she'd taken great delight in should she realise it, and only add to her repertoire of taunts.

 _"_ One would think you found him attractive for how often you stare at him, Draco," she'd teased him years ago, attempting and failing to draw his fixed attention.

Draco hadn't been drawn. He couldn't be, not from the very aggressive glaring match he and Potter had been sharing across the classroom. "I can hate someone and still acknowledge they're good-looking, Pansy," he'd replied without hesitation, lip curling as he did so. "Even if he has stupid hair and dresses like a fashion disaster."

"But you think he's attractive?" The skepticism was so thick in Pansy's voice that Draco could almost smell it. "What is it, the eyes?"

"He's got stupid glasses, too," was all Draco had said in reply. He hadn't needed to expand further; to attempt to deny Pansy would have been pointless, anyway.

Years later, and Draco was still caught. As soon as Potter turned his brief glance from Pansy onto him, Draco was captured. _What is it about his eyes?_ he wondered, cursing himself just as he had as a boy but unable to stop staring. The colours, the flecking, that they somehow seemed brighter and bigger and infinitely more captivating than he remembered. Was he using a charm? Curse him if he was, for that was underhanded play. Or was it just because he wasn't wearing glasses?

"… sure you recognise Draco Malfoy, too," Picard was saying, and only Draco's name spoken aloud managed to shake him back to himself. Not quite enough to turn from Potter, however. Definitely not when, quite unexpectedly, Potter smiled.

He smiled. At Draco.

 _What the fuck?_

"Of course," Potter said easily. He glanced back towards Pansy before crossing the room, the bald man following a step behind him like a bodyguard, and offered his hand out to her. She accepted it after an almost indiscernible hesitation, and a moment later, Potter was extending it towards Draco in turn. Draco almost couldn't take it – he didn't know why, but almost couldn't – and similarly almost couldn't let go when he managed.

"This is somewhat unexpected," Potter said, extricating his fingers. They were warm, Draco noticed. Warm and soft, as though he hadn't fought in a war barely years before. "Dorothea told me that Pansy was to take up the baton of interviewing, but I didn't know you were to be the photographer, Draco."

Pansy flinched and Draco did right alongside her. He didn't even need to share a glance with her to know they were wavering upon the same wavelength. _Pansy? Draco? What the…?_

Clearing his throat, Draco rose from his seat. He didn't necessarily feel threatened by Potter standing before him, above him, but it was certainly more comfortable to be of a height. Or a little bit taller height, he found, which was that little bit more comfortable again.

"Is that going to be a problem?" he asked calmly, quietly. Then, "Harry?"

 _Merlin, that feels strange._ Even in Draco's head, Potter had always been Potter. He didn't know how Potter called his own name so easily with the history that lay between them. It felt… not quite wrong, but definitely –

Potter smiled. Again. And this time just the hint of a dimple shadowed his cheek. How had Draco not noticed he had a dimple, even if only slightly? Potter should stop smiling. He should definitely stop. It was disconcerting.

"It sounds a bit weird, doesn't it?" Potter said, ignoring Draco's mental demand. He shook his head a little. "But, then again, I think it would be weirder if I called you Malfoy, don't you?"

 _No. Definitely not weirder. Normal, it would have been normal and –_

"Old water under the bridge and all that, right?"

 _No, not at all. It would be better. More distance. More similarity to the past. More –_

"We've discussed," Picard said, breaking into Draco's thoughts as he fought not to glare at Potter. For some reason, though she looked at Potter, Draco felt her words were directed towards himself. "This correspondence is mutually beneficial. But it is undertaken with the understanding that, should privacy and privileges be infringed upon, the contract declares your safety is to be put first."

"My safety?" Potter cast a smirk towards her, and he was still smirking when he turned back to Draco. It made his dimple that little bit deeper, which was even worse. "I'd like to think the past is in the past, right?"

Draco had lost his voice. It was a little humiliating, but he hoped his curt nod gave him an impression of dignity rather than incompetency. He didn't even need to shoot Pansy a glance to know she saw straight through him. She always did. He could almost hear her unspoken words: _And so it begins again._

"We'll be working out a time for an initial consultation and discussion of timetable over the next few weeks," Picard said, stepping around Potter and heading for her desk. "Von, if you would?"

His nerves were so tightly strung, his senses so pricked and attentive, that Draco nearly tore his wand out of his pocket as the tall bald man extracted his own. He was relieved that he managed not to as the man simply conjured a pair of chairs that looked distinctly more comfortable than Draco and Pansy's.

"So you're entitled to use magic but we're disallowed?" Pansy asked, her tone as deceptively mild as her expression.

"Yes," Picard replied, dropping into her chair. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Pansy only hummed in reply, but the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way she watched the man named Von plant himself between Potter and Draco's chairs, bellowed her disgruntlement. Or it did to Draco, at least.

Not that Draco noticed all that much. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. He watched as Potter settled himself into his chair, wedging his hands between his knees, and leaning towards Von to murmur something inaudible into his ear. He watched as he smiled again, his dimple reappearing, and thought of photographs taken and gazed upon with both a professional eye and something else. Draco watched as Potter glanced briefly towards him before turning back to Picard as she began speaking once more, talking of signing and contracts and "your most available contact number?"

And Draco thought. He thought of his school days and 'water under the bridge'. He thought of changes and how, even though the Potter before him was all but unrecognisable as his teenage rival, there were little bits that were still the same. His unwavering stare, for one. That he seemed so sure of himself, as if he was unconcerned. As if he'd never properly experienced fear, even in the face of his own death in the war.

That was who Potter was, after all. Draco had resented him for that in the past, just as he had so many other things. But he watched Potter from his periphery and listened with half an ear to Picard's sharp words, and those other things rose to the fore. As he thought of the coming months and what they promised, Draco's fingers itched for his camera. He watched, thought, and wondered.

Draco could hate someone but still recognise they were gorgeous. He'd practiced just that habit for years. But what did it mean when that hatred was abruptly found to be… just a little less profound than it had been?

* * *

A/N: Thank you to the lovely people keeping up with this story. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think if you get the chance. I'd absolutely love to hear from you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Flipping up the collar of his jacket to shield his neck, Harry hunched his shoulders as soon as he stepped out of the building of _Estallas_. The narrow road, as narrow as any other in the labyrinth of London, became a wind-tunnel with the barest breeze, and as he turned to make his way along the street he had to squint into the blinding assault of it. That was one thing that glasses were good for, and one he regretted when he wasn't wearing them.

Harry tucking his jacket around himself a little tighter, folding it across himself with one hand as the other dug in his pocket for his gloves. It was particularly cold that day, unseasonably so, and Harry left only a thumb free as he extracted his phone out and dialled a number from memory.

Ron picked up on the eleventh ring. "Yeah?"

"Are you busy?" Harry asked, pausing on the gutter and glancing absently in both directions. The traffic chugged with the speed of the turtle in its race against the hair, but it still took a dodging act to weave through it.

"Not… really," Ron replied distractedly.

"I take it you've got your hands in computer guts?"

"Yep."

"Is this a bad time?"

"Nope."

"Good, 'cause I've got a surprise for you."

Ron was silent for a moment, and Harry listened mutely to the clicking and scratching sounds of his work as he trotted across the street. He wasn't usually allowed to walk far by himself coming out of his agency's building, because everybody and their uncle seemed to know that the nondescript façade hosted Dorothea Picard and, thus, Harry. They'd had many a questionable swarm of guests, photographers, and fans clogging the street in the early days of Harry's career, enough that Dot had invested an exorbitant amount in Repulsion Charms that extended beyond the simple Muggle-Resistant wards. They worked well enough, but one particularly persistent fan or reporter still managed to slip through on the odd occasion.

That day, Von had to run off a little early. Reluctantly, because he took both his styling and his bodyguard duties very seriously, but he had. Dot hadn't finished up with her own work yet, either, still tangled in the midst of a long-winded consultation, so she'd reluctantly allowed his intervention.

"Apparate," she'd told him sternly as though he was a wayward child. "Go straight to the side street and Apparate."

"My bike is only parked around the corner," Harry had assured her without any real hope of convincing.

Predictably, Dot hadn't budged. She wasn't even close to budging. Her flat expression hadn't changed a single twitch. "Just around the corner," she'd said, "is a corner too far. I'm surely not the only one of us who remembers the last time you had to go 'just around the corner'."

Harry had sighed, folded, and accepted her orders as were duly presented. He did remember, and though it was all a little ridiculous, almost embarrassing, precautions were set in place for safety reasons. He didn't want a near abduction incident again; the most recent attempt had been messy, and not only because the Muggle police got involved.

It was strange, because such attempts always happened near _Estallas_ agency building. On Harry's trips to Diagon Alley, he could usually pass unnoticed with the right clothes and his head adequately tucked. The same in most Muggle hubs. But such liberty didn't detract from the real threat, and though it didn't bother Harry quite so much – what could most of them do, after all? – he abided by Dot's demand and Von's slightly less demanding requests.

In the side street, tucked into the protective cover of shadows and concealment spells, Harry Apparated to his bike.

"You just leavin' work?" Ron asked, the connection jerking momentarily as the phone's electronics struggled with the spurt of magic. It was unlikely that Ron's muffled voice was entirely because of the static interruption; he sounded like he had something held between his teeth.

Harry propped himself against his bike. "Are you talking to me with shit in your mouth?"

"Is a screwdriver, no' shit."

"Right. Want me to call you back?"

"Nah, 's all good." A clicking sounds rung through the phone, a loud think and a clatter. "Wha's up? If you're finished, I could prob'ly meet you somewhere 'n grab a drink in a bi'."

"Yeah, sure," Harry said. "But that's not actually what I'm calling about."

"Huh? What was that?"

 _He's definitely distracted,_ Harry thought with a small smile. It would have been hilarious to consider that Ron Weasley, pureblood and technological ignoramus that he'd been, was now a wizard not only of magic but computers. He took pride in attacking Harry's laptop and making it 'better' whenever he dropped over, which was practically every other day. It was a little funny, but Harry was thankful enough. Ironically, he hadn't much of a hand for computers, could only just grasp to logistics of his phone. Ron was a godsend in that department.

Which was why Harry repaid him when he could. In Harry's position, gossip as much as the favours all but fell into his lap. "So. You'll never guess what happened today."

Ron's clinking and tapping faltered. "What?"

"Today. Try and guess."

Ron could never pass up a bit of gossip. He was funny like that. The sound of a tool being placed down on a table clanked on the edges of Harry's hearing. "Something good?"

"Some _one_ good," Harry said, tucking his free arm across his belly against the cold, crossing his legs at the ankles before him.

"I'm listening."

"Are you?"

"Definitely."

"You're sure you're not too busy?"

"Okay, now I'm a little bit worried." Despite his words and their abrupt clearness, Ron sounded more engrossed than concerned. "You don't get excited about anything these days. This is weird."

Harry let both comments slide. He supposed it was probably a little bit true. There wasn't much that he found interesting enough to be excited about these days; it mostly felt rather dull. "Well, I had a meeting today."

"A meeting?"

"With a certain someone."

"And?"

"Someone from our mutual past. I thought you might be interested."

Ron grumbled something under his breath. "Alright, you tosser, stop baiting the bog witch. Who was it?"

Harry couldn't help but grin. He might not get excited, but knowing that something would capture Ron's interest was worth playing the game and pretending for. It didn't interest Harry all that much who he happened to bump into or hear about, but Ron…

"I went to my call-in for _How It Works_ this morning," he said.

Ron was silent. Then he blurted out in an incredulous exclamation, "What? What the bloody hell were you doing there?"

"Are you insinuating I'm not the right person to model for _How It Works_?" Harry said innocently.

"Definitely not," Ron replied in an instant. "I'm not saying you've got dumbass model-brains –"

"Aren't you?"

"- but science and tech really aren't your thing," Ron continued with barely a pause. He sounded only vaguely apologetic when he said, "sorry, mate. No offence."

"Oh, I'm sure." Harry couldn't quite smother a snort. How strange it was, that as soon as the brand 'model' was tagged to someone, their presumed IQ was instantly lowered. Harry had been fawned over as a Saviour, worshipped in a way that he could only describe as being horrifyingly unwanted, but as soon as he'd become a picture in a magazine, the emphasis had shifted. The fawning forgot that – at least in Harry's opinion – he wasn't innately stupid. Did people think that the camera flash killed brain cells or something? Or did they simply think that people must have few enough in the first place to choose to pose before one?

Ron wasn't usually accusing of such dimness. When he was guilty of it, he more often than not spoke jokingly. Hermione too, and Ginny, but then again, they'd both spend their fair share of time before a camera as well, if not quite for the same purpose.

Harry didn't mind. It didn't bother him. They could think what they liked. If he got riled at every thought that passed through everyone's mind, hackles rising at every dubious eye or sceptical pursing of lips, he wouldn't have the energy to step outside. Once, maybe. Once, it would have pissed him off enough to snatch his wand from his pocket and spin furiously towards anyone who challenged him, demanding recompense or at least retraction of words and thoughts.

But no longer. It was a little hard to be offended when the greatest offence had already been dealt to him. Who could top unrestrained murder?

"Harry?" Ron asked, interrupted his silence.

Harry didn't reply. Smiling to himself, he rocked backwards slightly on his bike and waited.

"Okay, okay, sorry." Ron's apology this time wasn't quite as offhanded. Begrudging, certainly, but heartfelt nonetheless. "You're not dumb. I swear."

"Mm," was all Harry replied.

Ron sighed heavily. "Will you please tell me who you talked to?"

"What?"

"Please?"

"Why?"

"Because they're from bloody _How It Works_!" Ron all but shouted. "Come on, please? It's not fair that you'd get to poke around HQ for – for whatever it was you were shooting for."

"It's that new 3G thing," Harry said mildly, kicking the heel of a boot absently on the ground. "They gave me a new phone and everything. The one I was getting shots to promote. I don't really know how to use it, but you know Draco – Draco Malfoy? – he's pretty good at this sort of thing, funnily enough, and I've got a pre-interview meet-up with him and Pansy in a couple of days. She'd probably leap on this 3G. Haven't you heard of it? It's supposed to be revolutionary for the modern digital world for sharing and accessing data and –"

"Okay, now I know you're pulling my leg." Harry could almost hear Ron pouting. "Tossing around Malfoy's name like that is bad enough, but asking for his help with a blood phone is a betrayal. So stop dodging the question and tell me; I can't even think who you're talking about who would be working there for –"

"Do you keep in touch with Penelope Clearwater?" Harry interrupted, swallowing his smile. "I wasn't sure if you would, seeing as how she and Percy ended it, but given your work…"

Ron was silent for a moment. Silent but for a slight strangled sound crackling through the phone. "You –" he managed. "You saw –"

"I got her number." Harry regarded his nails, picking at the slight hint of a chip in the index finger that would likely give Von an aneurism if he saw it. "I mentioned you and she said she'd call me. Which she did this afternoon. She said you're free to contact her if I give you her number, but…"

"Fucking Merlin," Ron swore, voice hoarse. "Are you serious? You mean she -? _The_ Penelope Clearwater said that she'd -?"

"Yeah."

"Fucking… Merlin, Harry, she'd a legend. Why the hell Percy even let her go I have no idea, but he's an idiot for doing it. If you even heard of some of what she's managed –"

"Yeah. I know. You've told me."

"She's practically the leading name in Wizarding Tech, you know?" Ron babbled, euphoria adding a slightly manic edge to his words. "She'd incredible. And she's so young too, and all. You know she's the one who built the first television that Hogwarts got its hands on almost single-handedly, right?"

"Yeah, you told me," Harry repeated.

"I've read some of her stuff - you know she's written in Wizarding magazines as well as Muggle ones? – and some of the stuff she comes up with… you wouldn't believe it. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Or maybe you wouldn't get it – I mean, it's all engineering lingo with a big chunk of programming language jargon thrown in, but…"

Harry listened with half an ear as he straightened from where he leant against his bike, pulling his shrunken helmet and wand from his back pocket and reinstating its size before slinging a leg over the seat. Another charm linked Ron's babbling line to his ear even as he blocked out the world with his helmet and, stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Harry shoved keys into the ignition and flicked the kill switch. He was easing away from the curb and into the traffic to the sound of Ron's still-rising excitement in seconds.

Harry wasn't uninterested in technology. He found it interesting, a curious study, and it was certainly useful. He could appreciate that it was impressive to have somehow modified such things to be able to function in the presence of magic, too, if not quite as enthusiastically as Ron did.

Because that was Ron's passion. It was what drove him. He'd found it, just as Ginny had found hers in quidditch, whether playing or teaching her juniors. Just as Hermione found her passion in her activism, standing up for her stalwart beliefs even in the face of her parents' denials.

Harry used to have that. Or he used to have something like that. It had always been a little different, though. Always a little less impassioned. When he was a kid, his every move was guided by the Dursleys. When he'd gone to school, the teachers had laid down further restrictions, and Hogwarts was no different. Dumbledore just added another layer, and Voldemort unwittingly with his maddened pursuit of Harry's life.

Harry hadn't been driven by the passion that left Ron shiny-eyed at Penelope's name, or Ginny glowing after a quidditch match. He hadn't stood tall, fast, and unbeatable like Hermione did in the face of political warfare, even if he had stood. He had planted himself in place like the soldier he was supposed to be but believed he truly wanted to. He'd chaffed at the bit of what bound him, struggled, and spat, and dug his heels in every step of the way. He'd resisted every constraining loop that was tossed at him because he had to. It had become habit.

But those loops were gone. No more Voldemort. No Dumbledore or professors, no teachers or Dursleys. It was as though Harry had been struggling and running, dodging away from demanding hands and pointing fingers, only to find that there wasn't any ground beneath him to run on anymore. Those reins had been snapped, the bit popped free, and now…

Harry wove through the traffic, sliding between cars that stood stationary in peak-hour. Ron was still winding himself up into a fit of excitement in his ear, and Harry let him, because he seemed so happy. He truly loved it – his computers, his tools and little gadgets – in a way that even his father hadn't. He loved too that he was recognised for the skill he'd developed with such a battle against ignorance.

Like Ginny's flying.

Like Hermione's calls to arms.

Like Penelope's skill with software, or Pansy Parkinson's with her ability to dredge up a good story from nothing, or even Draco Malfoy's photography.

Harry didn't quite have that. His was a little different. But, mock as Ron might, and tease as Ginny would that he 'had somehow gained a better fashion sense than all of them combined', and confused though Hermione was whenever he mentioned work – because modelling was a trivial pursuit, wasn't it? It wasn't really a proper job – he needed it. Harry needed it, and he needed to be wanted for what he could do.

No more chaffing at the bit. That bit sat comfortably, just as the reins settled confidently in Dot's hands as she navigated him through still-persistent fans, and paparazzi, and just about anyone who'd opened a magazine in London in the past three years. Harry was happy to let her have it.

* * *

He was early. He always was.

He didn't do it on purpose – or at least he didn't think he did. He was an early riser and had been an early riser even in his teenage years, much to Ron's horror. He supposed it probably had something to do with his aunt's own morning routine and Dudley's abrasive wakeup calls as he thundered down the stairs above his closet bedroom, but it could have just as likely been for another reason entirely.

If anything, he found such earliness a benefit these days. Harry had a workout routine he was to abide by, and on the instances that he was led astray from that routine he was called into the office to see Dot, or to meet his newest client. It served him well to have a modicum of wakefulness about him when Von latched him in his claws and sought to make a mess of whatever disaster sleep had made of Harry's appearance.

That day, however, Von didn't leap upon Harry as soon as he walked through the front door of the building. Harry didn't expect him to, and not because Von was, unfortunately, something of a naturally late sleeper himself. He didn't need to spend hours behind closed doors, lathering makeup as much as charms upon his face and hair, standing frozen as Anti-Wrinkling Charms were fixed to his clothes and all but have his shoelaces tied for him. The meeting for that day was about as casual as it got when it came to clients.

Not that casual was really Dot's style. Harry didn't think she was capable of such a thing.

The receptionist was only just setting herself up when Harry clicked the door closed behind himself. At his entrance, she paused where she was flicking through her papers, the computer before her slowly humming to life, to glance towards him.

"I've just had the kettle on," she said, reaching for and raising a mug nearly as big as her own head. From the heaviness of her eyes, bleary behind her glasses, it was clear she needed it.

"Thank, Meghan," Harry said as he passed her towards the hallway, and she nodded absently before sinking into her chair, hands wrapping around her mug. A wispy middle-aged woman, she likely didn't appear at all a figure worthy of concern to the idle client. She wore a professional face well enough, was efficient and organised, but there was nothing about her that would suggest she was a master dualist.

But of course she was. As though Dot would hire anyone less.

The hallway was comfortably silent, the doors into the opposing office lining its length closed and likely still locked. The ambiance was kind of nice, and one of the reasons Harry actually quite enjoyed coming in so early. The aloneness was like a breath of relief, a lull before the storm hit, and he bathed in it briefly after the drive through the madness that already tore through London's streets.

Harry busied himself filling the simple staff kitchen and lounge with the heady fragrance of coffee beans. His own mug in hand, he settled himself onto the plump couch, tucking his feet up before him and sinking into the cushion as he sipped his pseudo-breakfast. It wasn't as though Harry needed the extra nudge for wakefulness, practice having him already more than alert, but it would keep him going. He didn't expect the coming meeting that day to be quite as bad as Von anticipated, Dot speculated, and his friends agreed was nothing short of horrifying, but there was nothing wrong with precautioning.

Beyond the door, as the hour stretched, noise began to build from a muted murmur to something more. Slowly, incrementally, with one person after another, the office came alive.

A middle-aged man juggling too many folders clattered into the staffroom just past eight o'clock to similarly juggle his lunch into the fridge. Harry spared him a glance – Timone, his name was – before dropping his attention back to the folder open in his own lap and taking another sip of coffee.

A pair of women, talking with such a rapid-fire exchange that they didn't even appear to finish their sentences, hastened through barely ten minutes later. Harry shared a brief nod with the both of them, absently reheated the kettle before they got the chance to re-boil it, and went back to reading through his brief.

Kerry ducked her head in for a moment, spared a short hello, before disappearing. Garrett stood so long in the doorway on his phone that Ursula had to nudge him into motion when she attempted to enter the room herself. The sound of doors closing, the fridge opening and shutting, a burst of talkback radio before whatever office it came from was silence by a closed door – it all flowed around Harry at an increasingly upbeat pace that, if not necessarily enthusiastic, certainly breathed efficiency.

It always had. It likely always would. Dot might not be the sole person in charge of _Estallas_ , but those she shared the position with were nothing if not likeminded.

When Von all but rolled in nearly an hour after Harry, he was still as bleary-eyed as Meghan had been before she'd been brought to life by the masterful effects of caffeine, and likely s little else added into the mix. Von all but stumbled towards the kettle, grunted when he found it nearly empty, and extracted his wand rather than refilling it from the sink.

Harry absently placed his folder down before him, settling his long-emptied mug atop it, and couldn't help but smile a little as he watched Von scrubbing his eyes. No one who saw him in the full throes of his work would think Von could ever appear slovenly, and yet…

"Late night?" Harry asked.

Von grunted again.

"Do you need an ID?"

"It's not a hangover," Von said through a yawn.

"IDs aren't just for hangovers," Harry said, sliding his legs off the couch and resting his elbows on his knees. "And I didn't accuse you of having one in the first place. I just asked if you needed a potion. You were working too late last night, weren't you?"

Von shot Harry a glance over his shoulder, then sniffed offhandedly. "Yeah, well. Do you have one?"

Harry gestured towards the cupboard directly beside Von's head. "Top shelf. I think Edwin's keeping them there permanently now."

"Fantastic," Von said. He tugged the door open and hummed with sincere appreciation at the mint-green Invigoration Draughts filling the shelf in a perfect line. "He'll know I've taken one, won't he?"

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Just pay him for it."

"He's selling them?"

"Like a pusher."

Von chuckled as he plucked a vial from its shelf. He squinted at it briefly, raised it to his nose for a sniff, before pouring it into his own cup of coffee. "Bless his soul."

Harry smiled. Invigoration Draughts were far from the worst thing used that he'd come across in the industry, from models, managers, and crewman alike, but the higher-ups still frowned upon overuse of them. Even if they oftentimes did make such gruelling demands, the agency Harry worked with – and many others, if word of mouth spoke the truth – didn't tolerate the misuse of potions or chemicals from models or behind-the-scenes workers.

Watching as Von gradually came alive beneath the combined effects of the ID and his coffee, Harry absently began filing away the notes he'd been sent from the director at one of his latest requests. A Wizarding magazine, coveted by the world of witches and wizards, it was thick with expectations and guidelines more courtesy of Dot than their correspondents that dictated everything from stylistic differences to expectations of mannerisms and cordiality in the performance. It would all be briefed over in person, of course, but Harry appreciated the heads-up nonetheless. There were vast differences between the two worlds he dealt with when it came to modelling, and sometimes it helped to have a reminder.

"What's that?" Von asked.

Harry glanced up at him, pausing in his folding. "Just the stuff for _Kelly's_."

"You've got a fitting on Thursday, bub," Von said, as if he needed the reminder.

Harry didn't object to that redundancy. He had everything planned out and written meticulously not only at his flat but in Dot's office and likely on the inside of her brain, too. She wouldn't run the risk of him forgetting. "Yeah. I haven't even met the director yet."

"Not at the casting?" Von asked, eyebrow rising.

Harry shook his head.

"Of course not." Von rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee that seemed to have abruptly turned to vinegar for the sourness of his expression.

"You're still upset?" Harry asked.

"I'm not upset."

"Come on, Von. Just because they won't let you be my stylist on the day doesn't say anything about your skill. Heaps of places prefer to use their own. Most, even. Dot's just –"

"I know, I know." If anything, Von's expression twisted further. "I'm grateful and all."

"You sure sound like it," Harry muttered, ducking his head to avoid the frown Von shot him. He couldn't begrudge him his resentment. Not really. If Harry could have his way, he'd demand Von be his sole stylist all the time. Even after years of exposure, it was a still a little bit disconcerting to have strangers fussing over him with clinical proficiency.

Grumbling to himself, Von wandered across the room to prop himself on the arm of the couch alongside Harry. "What time were you in this morning?" he asked.

"Mm…" Harry frowned briefly at a page; there was definitely something worth rereading amidst the flowery language. "A little before eight."

"Did you already go to the gym?"

"Of course."

"Drive or Apparate?"

"Both."

Von muttered something else beneath his breath, but he sounded more amused that derisive when he continued. "You know, most people choose one of the other."

"I like riding my bike," Harry said, settling back into his seat. "It was my uncle's, you know."

"No shit, bub. You only tell me all the time."

"Should I tell you again?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure I heard it the first couple of hundred times."

Harry laughed and Von smiled over the edge of his mug. Only for that smile to slowly fade as his regard became intent. "How're you feeling?" he asked, almost gently. "About today?"

Von wasn't a tentative person. Not in the least. That he attempted to be said he understood the significance of the situation they'd found themselves in – or at least the significance that the world assumed it to be. Harry wasn't quite sure it warranted the emphasis.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Well, you know." Von readjusted himself on his perch.

"No, I don't."

Von frowned. He smoothed it away almost instantly, however, as sharp curiosity took its place. "You're really alright with Parkinson and Malfoy being in on all this? Really?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, to correct Von's use of surnames, because Harry had never really liked it and made a point of not doing so these days, but he held his tongue at the last moment. He dropped his gaze to his knees. How did he really feel about it?

He knew how he was supposed to feel. Unnerved. Disgusted. Riled, and objectionable, and denying such a choice. Like a prima donna, maybe Harry should have been demanding a larger crew than the handful that would be involved, a ridiculously small number both for someone of his name and notoriety and for _Syren_ themselves. More than that, however, that Draco and Pansy, two alleged ex-Death Eaters, were primary figures in the proceedings?

When Ron had found out, he'd been wrought with bystander horror. "I'll come and rescue you or something," he'd said over the phone. "Kidnapping style or something. In the middle of the interview. Just – I dunno, bugger off somewhere and hide until the hype dies down and Dot comes to her senses about who she'll approve to do the interviews and pictures."

"I don't really care, to be honest," Harry had replied.

"You… you don't care?"

"No. Not really."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Why should I?"

"Because – Harry, because it's Malfoy. Hell, jump back five years and you'd be spitting chips at having to be in the same room as him."

Harry considered. Would he be? He supposed he would, but… not now. Not anymore. He didn't feel even the slightest hint of anger for the situation. Should he? Would he really have been so angry, once upon a time?

"Wow, has it really been so long?" Hermione had said, shaking her head as she stared at him over the restaurant table, fork forgotten in her hand. "Wasn't Malfoy under house arrest in France for two years?"

"Yeah. And apparently he's been a photographer ever since he was released."

Hermione had shaken her head again. She hadn't seemed to even realise she'd put her fork into her mouth as she'd continued through her chewing. "Has he changed much? Malfoy?"

Harry thought. When he considered it, Draco probably had changed, and yet at the same time not at all. He still wore the same aloofness, the touch of arrogance that he'd always possessed, and perhaps even more so than the boy he'd been at the end of the war. He was still immaculately presentable, clothes smooth and elegant, if simplistic, in a way that Harry wouldn't have noticed before he'd fully stepped up to his role as a model. His hair was perhaps a little longer at the top, his face a little fuller than it had been at his worst, and the set of his shoulders held a touch more confidence than he'd been capable of summoning at his most brow-beaten. But he was ultimately the same person.

Or mostly, because this Draco didn't sneer as soon as Harry stepped through the door. He didn't scowl at the prospect of working together but instead seemed nothing if not ready to step up to the game. He spoke with precise and reserved professionalism, tossing around lingo that Harry had heard from many a photographer, and not a hint of derision, or superiority, or even pride touched his words. He was different. Older. Matured and, if not as much as Harry had been told he was himself, just a little less angry.

Had Draco Malfoy changed? Harry supposed he had, but then who of them hadn't? Pansy had, too, and Harry had mentioned just as much to Hermione, which seemed enough of a distraction for her as she'd diverged into a spiel of, "I've read a whole heap of her articles, you know, and they're actually not bad."

"You should shag him."

Harry had turned to Ginny with a blank stare where she'd been sitting at his side, leg slung casually over the arm of his couch and all but sprawled in her stretch across the cushions between them. She grinned at him upside-down, a grin by no means lessened for being the wrong way around.

"Excuse me?"

Ginny had snorted, grin widening. "You should. He was always pretty fit, right?"

"Ginny."

"It's not uncommon for models to fuck their photographers on a casual basis, right? You said so yourself."

"Gin."

"And honestly? Really honestly, Harry." Ginny had pushed herself onto her elbows, turning towards him properly as her grin had settled into a smirk. "Apart from the end of sixth year, you were always kind of obsessed with him. It was only when we started dating that you really backed off any, and we all know that was more because of your sexuality crisis unconsciously nagging at you than because you were interested in my boobs." She'd paused, then poked his thigh with a finger. "Ob. Sessed."

"Was I really?"

Harry pondered the idea. He supposed he had been, once. He supposed he'd been a lot more passionate about everything else, too, just as Ron, and Ginny, and Hermione had told him. Even Molly Weasley had said on several occasions that she'd noticed he seemed to have become 'settled', whatever that meant.

"It's lovely to see, dear," she said on those occasions. "It was always so upsetting to see you become so angry when you were younger."

That anger had long faded, vanishing to where Harry couldn't find it even when he looked. Maybe he'd used it all up in the war and it had disappeared right alongside any willingness to fight anymore. Or maybe the simple act of accepting that his life was governed by someone else – by Dot, by the agency, by every photographer, and director, and headline that demanded a response – rather than fighting against it had changed something in him.

When it came to Draco and Pansy, Harry should have been many things, but he wasn't. He wasn't any of it.

"Harry?"

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Harry glanced once more towards Von. "Hm?"

Von was frowning again, and Harry wasn't surprised. Von had never been a particularly active member in the war, his mother a Muggle and his father all but entirely separated from the Wizarding world as it was, but even he hadn't been able to escape the ingrained prejudice that most of the world still held for ex-Death Eaters.

Resting his mug upon his knee, Von shook his head slightly. "It really doesn't bother you? About Parkinson and Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged. "No. Not really."

"And you're not worried at all about having to actually talk to them again in," Von glanced at his watch, "less than half an hour?"

"No."

"Wow. Well, you're a better man than I, bub. I wouldn't be able to even look at the pair of them straight, and definitely not if I were in your shoes."

Harry left the words hanging, simply watching as Von rose to his feet to take his mug to the sink. Dropping his elbow onto his knee and his chin into his hand, he barely realised he was staring at Von's workaday motions across the room as he fell back into his thoughts. Half an hour. Half an hour until he was faced by something that should have unnerved him but really didn't.

 _You're a better man than I_ , Von had said. Harry didn't think that 'better-ness' had anything to do with it. Harry was just… Harry.

* * *

"Why are you taking pictures in the interview itself?"

Draco paused in setting up his tripod, sparing a glance towards Von where he'd wedged himself into a corner of the room. After a moment, however, he glanced towards Harry and, despite the question arising from Von's corner, he addressed Harry when he replied.

"I'll be including a sequence of behind-the-scenes footage that will be released in increments after the primary installments," he said. "So long as you've got no objections?"

Harry shrugged. He didn't really care what footage was used, even if he knew that Dot did, and Von, and every other person in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds who had any kind of interest in him. It wasn't ever truly for him to decide, anyway. It was out of his hands, and even if Harry did have a problem with what his shots were being used for, it wasn't like he had any say in the matter. Despite what the world seemed to think of noteworthy models – a term he'd never attributed to himself until Ginny had very emphatically informed him that he'd apparently become pronounced in his own right – he didn't have much say in what he did at all.

That was what Dot was for. And bless her for having a rational head on her shoulders.

The room was simple, unadorned but for the pair of chairs and round table between them, and not unlike the interview studios Harry had been in countless times in the past. Except that this wasn't a studio. It wasn't even really an interview room, but a study of sorts in one of the higher rooms of the building of _Estella en Ascenso_. While most of the interviews had been booked to take place at _Syren,_ alongside every fitting, correspondence with editors, and meeting with the coordinators, the pre-interview session was to be held in private quarters. Dot had managed to instate her demands in that much, at least.

Dot herself was speaking to Pansy across the room, and from the firm set of her face and Pansy's all but silent nods of reply, she was likely laying the ground rules. Again. Harry had it on record that she'd shared many a threatening phone call, sent many a tight-lipped fax, and shared numerous such conversations with Pansy in particular already. If he wasn't already aware that such an interview with the 'Chosen One of the Past' was drawing disproportionate attention, he would have thought it unnecessary. He still did, to a degree, but…

"I'll not have this blowing up in our faces," Dot had said only that morning, and not for the first time. "Even Jack and Jill in London and beyond shuns this agency and everyone who's involved for keeping our hands on you rather than letting you go to somewhere with a bigger head on their shoulders. I'll not give them any more fodder."

"Keeping your hands on me?" Harry had echoed. "What am I, a chew toy?"

"Practically," Von had said.

Dot had ignored them both but to pin them both with a hard stare. "Don't pretend this won't add even more weight to your every move, Harry. Making your story professional and the interviews deliberately focused was always an inevitability, but we don't have to play to the expectations of what's going to arise. So be careful."

Harry was. Not intentionally, but he was. He didn't go out but with his friends, and always draped in Concealment Charms. He Apparated where possible because he had to, and always had company in interviews and castings that he only rarely attended as he'd been required to before. Fame was dangerous, he'd found, and not only from malicious sources.

Glancing back towards Draco, Harry regarded him for a moment. Whether it was Von's words or those of his friends, or perhaps even the disgruntlement of the Wizarding world and Muggle photographers in response to the announcement, he felt a flicker of curious arise within him. Instead of telling his own story, he'd rather learn what had become of Draco over the years. And Pansy, for that matter; she'd surely paved a colourful path to be able to plant herself as such a distinctive interviewer and reporter.

Draco had bowed back to his task, long fingers working with meticulous proficiency over the cameras as he settled and adjusted flicks and switches. His head tipped to peer at it sidelong, his blank focus was disturbed only by a slight frown, nearly lost behind the curl of his white-blond fringe that flopped across his brow.

Smooth, groomed hair, down to the perfect angle of the side-comb. A simple, elegant outfit that managed to make him seem even taller than he was in a way that Harry wouldn't have understood before he'd been made to appear so himself on countless occasions. A dark tie tucked into his sleeveless vest, the sleeves of his dress-shirt underneath folded precisely to his elbows, shoes polished to a shine; if anything, he looked like the kind of person that should be standing in front of the camera rather than behind it.

"Do you have something you'd like to say, Harry?"

Harry allowed himself a small smile. How easily swayed they both were, that a simple decision could have them disregarding years of derisive address to speak with familiarity. Nothing but a hint of boredom touched Draco's words. It was almost as though they hadn't been rivals at all, and the thought, the difference, the change that was more apparent in that instance than Harry had considered it before, struck him then.

"Because it's Malfoy," Ron had said, his horror thickening his voice as he'd all but demanded an explanation over the phone. "Has he changed much?" Hermione had asked repeatedly, fascination hushing her words. "You should definitely shag him," Ginny had teased, because she knew that, in the past, such a thought was not only inconceivable but horrifying in itself.

 _In the past_. Harry nearly snorted. How much things had changed indeed, that he could contemplate such a thing as casually as the urge to recross his legs.

"Not really," Harry replied to Draco's askance, because he didn't have anything to say. Not in the slightest.

Draco glanced at him sidelong, and though his fingers still worked – adjusting minutely, squeaking the frame into place – he didn't blink away for a long moment.

When Dot finally released Pansy from her claws, Pansy crossed the room. A hint of something that wasn't quite a smirk niggled at the corners of her lips as she settled herself. "Well," she said with a sigh, adjusting her seat and plucking a notepad from thin air. A pen – not a quill but a pen – appeared a moment later. "Now that our babysitter has finished bulldozing me, shall we start?"

"I consider her more of a bodyguard than a babysitter," Harry said, settling back into his own seat.

"A bodyguard?" Pansy glanced briefly towards Von. "You have two?"

"No. Von's just a pretty face."

To his credit, Von only grinned, shaking his head as he leant a little more comfortably back against the wall. Dot, naturally, didn't budge an inch. She could have been a stone gargoyle as she watched them from her own perch.

Pansy chuckled. She actually chuckled, which Harry supposed he'd have to tell Hermione about, what with her avid curiosity. He'd never thought she could make such an affable sound in the past. "Good to know which direction I should defend myself from should I slip up again."

"Which you won't," Harry said, propping an elbow onto the arm of his hair and resting his cheek in his hand his hand. He smiled. "I've heard you're pretty good."

"Have you really?"

"I have some reliable sources."

Pansy's smirk seemed to soften just a little. "Good to know that even in Harry Potter's circles I'm not considered entirely disastrous."

"He never said that," Draco murmured from behind his camera. "Don't make assumptions, Pansy."

"I do believe that cameras aren't typically supposed to talk," Pansy said, shooting him a glance.

"Then you clearly haven't dealt with a wizard's camera all that much."

"More's the photographer that I have an objection to. I should find a new one."

"So soon? That's quick of you. You do yourself proud."

Harry glanced between them at their snapped exchange. It was somehow just a little fascinating. He'd never considered that they could share such companionability despite their friendship, even if it was underscored with teasing and jabs. It made sense given they were friends, but…

"Isn't this Harry's interview?" Von asked, cutting into their not-argument. "Or should we all leave the room to let you finish?"

"Technically it's not a proper interview yet," Harry said.

"Precisely," Pansy said, turning back to him. "Which is why I would have told you not to be nervous or anything – all empty platitudes, you understand, but necessary for procedure – except that you don't appear to be needing kid gloves. Do you?"

Harry hitched a shoulder, blinking slowly. "Not to sound like a prat, but I've done this a couple of times before."

"Not to sound like a prat, he says," Von said, shaking his head again. "Bub, I don't think I've ever actually heard you sound like a prat."

"Really?" Draco asked, once more not looking towards Von. His eyebrow arched as he stared at Harry, but he didn't continue.

"Both of you, mouthy cameraman and Pretty Face, can leave the room if you would be quiet," Pansy said pleasantly. She smiled at Harry. "What do you think?"

Harry didn't need to reply. Draco's scowl and Von's grumble but subsequent silence spoke for them. From the corner of his eye, Harry thought he might have even seen a hint of approval touch Dot's stern stare. With a shrug, Harry took that sentiment as well as thoughts of Draco, Von, and anything beyond the room and placed it out of his mind.

"Whatever you'd like, Pansy," he said. "You're the one in charge in this situation."

Pansy blinked. If he were to hazard a guess, he might think she even looked a touch surprised. Any evidence of such vanished an instant later, however, when she plucked her pen out of the air where it had been suspended and set the nib to her page.

"Alright, then," she said, scratching out a few words. "I figure today we'll just have a bit of a rundown of what we'll be doing, brainstorm the potential routes we want to take, and work from there. Yes?"

Harry nodded.

"So, to start off with, I'm thinking we'll divide the sequence into four section with four interviews and shoots each." Pansy wrote as she spoke yet kept her eyes upon Harry as though gauging his response. "They'll have to go for a couple of hours each, mind. You're aware we're going pretty in depth, aren't you?"

Harry nodded again.

"I mean more in depth than those previously."

Harry raised an eyebrow slightly. Was he supposed to care? In many ways, it would be simpler having everything out in the open than keeping it all under lock and key. Besides, he didn't have all that much to hide. Not really. "I don't care."

Pansy shot such a brief glance towards Draco that Harry almost missed it. For Draco's part, Harry noticed his expression was even blanker than it had been before. He was watching Harry too, his hands rested atop the camera, and posed so still that he hardly seemed to be breathing.

"Good,' Pansy said after a moment. "That makes things easier."

"I'm sure Dorothea will jump in if she feels you're overstepping your boundaries," Harry said.

Pansy grunted. "I'm sure she will." She tapped her nib several times, twirled her pen briefly, then resettled it. "Alright, so we'll start with early life in our first sitting: where you grew up, who you lived with, what it was like in a Muggle household. I think _Syren_ was going to try and get an interview with them, but I don't know how successful they've been so far."

 _They can try,_ Harry thought. _Even with fame, I doubt Vernon and Petunia want to have anything to do with me. Maybe Dudley wouldn't be quite so bad, but who knows?_

"As far as I'm concerned, I don't feel the need to address them directly. So, unless Draco wanted to try for a shoot…?" She nodded as Draco gave a nearly non-existent frown. "Right. So, we'll move onto school life with the second sitting. Not that most people don't know the gist of it, but your experience directly is what we're really looking for."

"My experience?" Harry echoed.

"People want to hear it in your words," Pansy clarified.

"Oh, I doubt that. No one really wants to hear the truth; they want to hear what they want to hear."

Pansy's pen paused. She considered Harry for a moment, slowly pursing her lips. "You know," she said just as slowly, "you're not as stupid as you look. And seem."

Von growled something across the room, but Harry only shrugged. "Thanks? You know, I get told that a lot, actually. Do I really seem so stupid?"

"Or act so smart," Draco murmured nearly inaudibly. Harry glanced towards him, momentarily confused by what he meant, before Pansy recaptured his attention.

"We'll skim over the big incidents in your school years," she continued, eyeing Draco sidelong once more as she did so. "We'll touch on that a bit more in the next sitting, I think, with the war. That one will have to be a big one, so… we're looking at half the day? Maybe extending it further?"

Harry didn't even bother nodding this time.

"And then afterwards, we'll go into your life and career as the Saviour of the Wizarding world and beyond. The post-war rebound, deciding not to return to school, how you got into modelling…"

She continued, but Harry didn't feel much need to add his two cents. He was there to listen and respond to her questions, after all. And, not so surprisingly as he'd felt just that way in years, he didn't mind. He didn't feel disgruntled that his opinions were practically overlooked. He didn't care that he didn't get to choose who interviewed him, or what was to be asked, or what he would wear in the shoots and how it would all be compiled and presented. He simply didn't care.

Life, Harry had found, was far easier, far less objectionable, and far more peaceful when he simply let things happen. Rather than chaffing at the bit, it was easier just to stop fighting entirely.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter. I can't even say how lovely and supportive I found it. Each and every single message made my day, so I can't thank you enough.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'll see you next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 **"… sure you're more than familiar with the kinds of questions to expect from these sort of things. It would almost be dull, wouldn't it?"**

"I don't mind so much. Besides, if someone asks the same question, it's actually easier since I already know the answer."

 **"I'd have thought you'd know the answer to any question. It's your life, after all."**

"Yes, but some questions take more time to process and work out the best reply to than others."

 **"Well, suffice it to say that this time will be different."**

"Will it?"

 **"No offence intended to my predecessors, but I intend to tread where no interviewer has trodden before. We're going to take a look at your real story, Mr. Potter."**

"Please, just call me Harry."

 **"I'm sure you're aware that such casualness might not be taken so well."**

"Does it matter? Besides, you've got my permission on camera, so what's the harm?"

 **"… you know, you're right. Familiarity and casualness is what I always strive for in these situations. It's more comfortable for everyone involved, wouldn't you agree?"**

"Definitely."

 **"Good to hear. Shall we get started, then?"**

"Fire away."

 **"No nerves?"**

"Not really."

 **"Well, if anything I ask makes you uncomfortable, or you're disinclined to answer, just let me know. I don't want to encourage you into sharing anything you desperately want to keep hidden."**

"That's good of you, but I think that most of the secrets anyone really cares about are already in the open."

 **"I wonder… Is that a challenge, Harry?"**

"It wasn't intended to be, Pansy."

 **"Forgive me if I take it as such. In the best possible way, of course."**

"Of course."

 **"Now. We'll start at the beginning. It's common knowledge that at barely fifteen months old your parents were taken from you. Do you remember any of it?"**

"Wow. Right to the heart of the matter. You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

 **"I'd rather avoid hacking through the underbrush and instead dive straight into the forest. As I said, if it makes you uncomfortable…"**

"No, it's okay. It's actually kind of refreshing. Let's face it, everyone already knows everything, so what've I got to hide?"

 **"That's what I'm hoping to figure out. Everyone wants to hear your story from you rather than second-hand. A new take, as it were."**

"Then I'm afraid most people will be pretty disappointed."

 **"We'll see."**

"Or not. As it happens, I don't remember anything about the night I, uh, lost my parents. Or anything from before that, for that matter."

 **"Nothing at all?"**

"No. There's pictures and things, and that sometimes makes me feel like I remember, but I think that's probably just projecting, you know?"

 **"So nothing at all? No vague memory of your mother's face or your father's laugh?"**

"No."

 **"And what about the night you lost them specifically? It must have been traumatic, even for a child. Nothing?"**

"If I did, I think it probably would have impacted me strongly enough that I'd remember, right? You said it: even for a kid it would be traumatic."

 **"Then, nothing?"**

"No. Sorry to disappoint you."

 **"Not at all."**

"What're you writing? Literally 'nothing'."

 **"Nosy, Harry?"**

"Well, it is about me. I'm just curious."

 **"As am I. Now, as the story goes, Rubeus Hagrid was the one who took you to live with your aunt and uncle. I take it you don't remember any of that journey either?"**

"I'm afraid not. Sorry."

 **"No need to apologise. And Albus Dumbledore? Minerva McGonagall? Stories also claim that not only were they both responsible for your relocation but that they accompanied Mr. Hagrid. No recollections there either, I take it?"**

"You're whipping a dead horse, Pansy. Sorry. If I did, I'm sure some news headliner would have already written about it."

 **"Indeed…"**

"More writing?"

 **"None of your concern. So, your relatives. The Dursleys, yes? Mr. and Mrs…?"**

"Vernon. And Petunia. And my cousin, Dudley."

 **"Of course. And they're all Muggles."**

"Very Muggle."

 **"Meaning?"**

"Meaning they didn't have anything to do with the Wizarding world."

 **"Nothing at all? Did they know of our world?"**

"Should you be asking me this when this interview will be aired to Muggles as well?"

 **"Worry not about that. This is the first session, so we'll be a little liberal and just fix things up with the final edit. The editors will skew the story appropriately, make it more Muggle-friendly, and we'll do out bit in coming interviews. Never you fear.."**

"So then, Muggles will be…?"

 **"Most likely those who don't follow Pagan practices."**

"Huh. Well, they definitely weren't."

 **"And yet you yourself are, are you not, Harry?"**

"Pagan?"

 **"Yes. Like your parents."**

"Ha. Yeah. I guess you could say it's inherited? Even living without being exposed to it – I guess it's in my blood."

 **"Oftentimes it is. Did you manifest any particular tendencies towards Paganism at a young age?"**

"… You know, some people – sorry, will this be edited out?"

 **"Accordingly, should it infringe upon the Muggle Awareness Act. As I said, this is the first session. We can afford to be a little more liberal."**

"Right. So, you know that some people will object to the fact that I'm… Pagan. Right?"

 **"Is that a problem?"**

"For me?"

 **"For you. And your career. A prominent figure such as yourself – our correspondence and subsequent publication shouldn't infringe upon your work."**

"If anything could infringe upon my work it would be the overprotectiveness of my agent."

 **"Your bodyguard, you mean?"**

"Yes, she is sort of that."

 **"I see. Regardless, have no fear in the translational department, but we can discuss post-interview what should and shouldn't be revealed."**

"Really? Most interviewers don't allow their subjects to comment on that kind of thing."

 **"This isn't like most interviews, Harry."**

"Yeah, I'm starting to realise that."

 **"We're getting off-topic. So, your relatives. You lived with them until you attended secondary school, correct?"**

"Yes."

 **"Can you tell me a little bit about them?"**

"There's not really all that much to tell. They were… family. We were never particularly close, and Dudley and I didn't click, so that probably put a bit of a wall between us. Or maybe it was because of my Pagan blood."

 **"A wall? In what way?"**

"Oh, nothing drastic. Just that I suppose we weren't as close as most families are."

 **"You don't think that your distance manifested any kind of behaviour unreminiscent of familial interactions?"**

"… What?"

 **"Did they ostracise you? To my knowledge, Paganism and Pagans are often excluded in some circles."**

"Ostra –? Oh. No. Not really. I mean, we never had particularly deep conversations or anything, but Dudley and I used to play together sometimes with his friends. I always had breakfast and dinner with them and everything. My aunt and I actually used to cook in the kitchen a little bit together."

 **"A hidden talent for cooking? How unexpected, Harry."**

"I don't know if I'd call it a talent."

 **"They seem affectionate enough, then, yes? But what about your tendencies? Did any incidents arise pertaining to that?"**

"Incidents… I suppose maybe a little? I think I was probably a bit of a wayward kid, so I didn't follow the rules quite how my aunt and uncle would have preferred I did. They had to come up to school a couple of times because of some disagreements, and that caused a bit of a rift between us."

 **"A rift?"**

"In the loosest sense of the term. That, and other little things. Like how I didn't ever really like my aunt cutting my hair, so we'd argue over it. Or that some of Dudley's games weren't really to my taste, so we'd have the odd disagreement or two about it. Stuff like that."

 **"That seems nothing if not usual family dynamics."**

"Yeah. Probably because it was. Nothing outstanding."

 **"And how did they respond to your acceptance into your secondary school? You were provided with gifted placement because of your parents, I'm sure you're aware. Being non-Pagan, how did they take it?"**

"Not great. I mean, it wasn't a disaster or anything, and they eventually agreed when the school approached the directly, but it's against their own religion. You can't exactly blame them."

 **"Of course not. Were you upset to leave them?"**

"Not really, to be honest. As I said, we were never exactly close."

 **"I see… Now, taking a step backwards a little bit, your education was fairly typical in your primary years…"**

* * *

 _Syren_ was quite literally buzzing with activity. Whether it was the lunch hour or simply that the size of the company exceeded most that Draco had previously dealt with, he didn't know. Or maybe it was because it was one of the few that juggled the fragile Wizard-Muggle overlap without infringing upon legalities. Even as a new company, they were rapidly becoming famous for it.

Ultimately, however, Draco didn't care. He'd been standing behind a camera for the past three hours and was revelling in the chance to stretch his legs a little. And his back. And his fingers. It wasn't particularly unfamiliar to him, but filming wasn't his forte. Nor was it his preference, for that matter. He was looking forward to the following day when the proper shoot would be underway.

Or maybe 'looking forward' wasn't the right way to phrase it. Certainly not aloud. That Draco really was almost eagerly anticipating shooting Potter…

 _I don't know if that will ever not feel strange_ , he thought as he deliberately shifted the 'Potter' to 'Harry' in his head once more. _It wasn't like I felt the need to change it, but if Potter – if Harry is disregarding past terms of address, it would be juvenile not to do the same._

It was still strange, though. Different, which was a reality that Draco was becoming more and more certain of existed in Harry himself, too. Even more so after the initial half of Pansy's interview for that day.

A spitting sound snapped Draco's attention from where it had drifted. In the middle of the hallway, he slowed in step and glanced sidelong at the man who even then was only just passing him. Narrow-eyed, square-jawed, lip curled. Aggression radiated off him in almost visible ripples.

"Fucking Death Eater scum," he muttered before striding away in the opposite direction to Draco, shoulders rigid with tension.

 _Well, that's original_. Snorting to himself, Draco shook his head and picked up his pace once more.

It wasn't unexpected, that he was shunned. It wasn't unfamiliar to be glared at, to be sneered at, to be the subject of hissing and spitting as though surrounded by a particularly disgruntled horde of kneazles. Draco was used to it – or had become used to it in the years he'd been back in London. The war had passed and the post-war clean up all but swept under the rug, but memory still remained.

If it was a little more pronounced, a little more frequent, and just a little more aggressive of late…

 _It's only to be expected. After all, how dare an ex-Death Eater be in the vicinity of the precious Saviour, let alone two of us._

How it must rankle the petty minds of witches and wizards alike, that not only was Pansy the one gifted the opportunity to interview Harry Potter for his 'proper' and 'complete' life story, but that Draco would be the one to photograph and film him. How it must vex that none but himself, Pansy, Von, and the pair of silent and largely dismissed _Syren_ employees were the only attendants in the room at such interviews. How it must frustrate and worry the fretful minds of Harry Potter's adoring fans.

Draco might have even revelled in such provoked anger had it not been for the death threats and equally threatening warnings that had, predictably, begun flooding his mailbox and his kitchen with letter-bearing owls of late. That part was certainly not to his taste.

Picking up his pace further as another woman, one that didn't actually seem to be a witch this time, shot him a frown as though he contaminated the air with his presence. Draco rolled his eyes when she was out of sight. Muggles had even gotten their knickers in a knot over the situation. As the national curiosity that shining star Harry Potter was, the Harry Potter who remained steadfastly loyal to the negligible _Estallas_ Agency – that he was in the hands of a pair of insignificant nobodies like Draco and Pansy was a veritable offence to their delicate sensibilities.

Not that Draco cared. Or Pansy. Or Harry, for that matter.

Pressing himself briefly against the wall as a string of hastening men and women darted past, Draco cursed the narrow hallways of _Syren_ 's head office. With all their rising prominence, surely they could afford to widen the blasted hallways, couldn't they? Grumbling to himself, Draco took a left into an equally narrow passage beneath an indicative sign and shouldered his way into the men's room.

Only to pause as the door swung shut behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, found no words, and closed it as he couldn't help but stare.

Watching Harry through the lens of his camera hadn't been enchanting. It hadn't captivated Draco in unblinking attentiveness, forgetting himself and his work to stare at the man who he'd once only glared at yet always in appreciation. That was simply how Draco was; when he was looking through the eye of his camera, he was working. It was only afterwards, when he saw the shots, clinically tracing his eyes over the lines of his subject, that he could begin to appreciate them for what they were.

In the frozen image of a photograph, but also when they posed before him without the filter of a camera at all.

Harry stood before the bathroom mirror, attention trained upon his reflection and head tipped slightly forwards as his fingers plucked at his overlong fringe. He didn't seem to notice Draco's entrance, or at least didn't heed it, for he didn't pause in his meticulous ministrations, for which Draco was grateful. It allowed him a moment to stare without being caught.

Draco had seen models. He'd photographed them. He'd directed them into just the right stance, into just the right expression, and had been satisfied enough with countless takes even if they hadn't been perfect. He recognised beauty in features enhanced and streamlined by makeup that could be so subtle as to be all but mistaken for natural as often as screaming in pastel like a flaunting peacock. Draco was used to that.

So why was Harry so different?

The bathroom, in contrast to the hallway, was wide, refined, and smelt remarkably clean for a men's restroom. All dark tiles, contrastingly pale bench and matching faucet. The doors of the cubicles were actual doors rather than the half-sized impressions reminiscent of school restrooms. But Draco hardly noticed. How could he notice when Harry, the 'different' Harry that seemed to immediately demand his attention when he saw him, was right before him?

It could have been because Draco had seen him before. Because he'd witnessed his awkwardness in adolescence, the years of baggy shirts and jeans, messy hair that had nothing artful about it, and old-fashioned glasses that hid too much of his face to properly discern the truth finesse of it. It could have been that they'd shared a rivalry that seemed to have somehow disappeared like smoke on the wind, or that they'd stood on opposite sides of the war and yet Harry had still saved him from fiendfyre, still stood testimony for him at his trial, and still given him his wand back. It could have been all of that which captured Draco. Or it could have been simply that it was Harry Potter.

For whatever reason, Draco couldn't help but stare as Harry rearranged his fringe with delicate fingers that would never have been capable of such in the past. As he leant slightly closer to the mirror, free hand pushing himself up an inch with the aid of the counter before him, hip cocked slightly in a way that was likely unintentional but still drew the eye. It was as though, despite being off the studio floor and way from prying eyes, the habits of a model had seeped into Harry's every move and influenced his every stance.

Of all the people in the world, Harry wasn't someone that Draco would have ever considered to be a model. Not even close. It wasn't because of how he looked, but how he held himself. How he walked. His confidence in all the wrong areas, his disregard for frivolities and even greater disregard for actually looking presentable.

And yet he was. Harry was, Draco realised, a model. An actual model, who was actually good at what he did. He didn't think he'd fully accepted that fact until that moment. That, and because, despite the familiar weight of his stare that Draco always felt when they locked eyes, Harry really was different. He hadn't realised how much, but he was. Very different.

"Have you forgotten what you came in here for?"

Draco nearly flinched as he was tugged from his silent staring. Folding his arms slowly, as much to give time to gather himself, he raised an eyebrow that Harry likely didn't see. "Are you gussying up?"

"Of a sort," Harry murmured detachedly, frowning slightly in the mirror.

"Isn't that what your stylist is for?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't want to inflict disaster upon Von when it wasn't necessary." Harry pursed his lips slightly. "I'm cleaning before the cleaner comes over, or however you'd like to call it."

Draco didn't really know what that meant, but he'd lived enough years without house elves to make rational connections. He supposed it even made sense, in a way, especially given that, thought Von wasn't the only one of the stylists involved in the shoots and interviews – that was one area in which _Syren_ had put their foot down – Harry had an unusually good relationship with him.

Even so, Draco couldn't help but return to his staring as he slowly pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room. He paused at Harry's side, and though he knew that Harry noticed himself being watched, doing so with deliberate awareness erased the shame of it. Or at least it did for Draco.

For that matter, Harry didn't seem to care all that much either. Poking himself absently in the cheek, still frowning, he didn't quite turn to Draco when he spoke. "Can I help you with something?"

"You," Draco said.

"Yes? What about me?"

"You're different."

With only a flicker of his eyes, Harry darted a glance towards Draco. How his stare could be so wide, so unwavering, so stupefying even sidelong, Draco didn't know, but he'd already accepted the fact that it was. He'd accepted it years ago, and likely even before anyone else had noticed.

"Different?" Harry asked, slowly lowering his raised hand to the counter. "How so?"

"You mean besides acquiring fashion sense? And a haircut? And finally realising that your glasses were an abomination?"

Far be it from becoming angered, Harry smiled. An actual smile, amused and everything, if only small. "That wouldn't be particularly hard given that I was starting from rock-bottom to begin with," he said. "You can blame Von for that. He's the one who fixed me."

"Fixing you?"

The smile grew crooked with self-deprecation. "I wasn't exactly the beautiful swan, Draco. The ugly duckling, maybe."

"The ugly duckling?" Echoing was all he could manage.

Harry glanced to the side for a moment, a twinge of thoughtfulness casting his expression vaguely distant. Then his face cleared and he corrected himself. "'The Plucked Cockatrice' I think is the Wizarding equivalent."

Draco frowned. That old fable? The ugly cockatrice without a plume to his tail that had in fact been a griffin hidden in the cockatrice nest by a desperate mother? Not only did Harry's words reek of further self-deprecation, but… "The plucked cockatrice who turned out to be an immature griffin, you mean? The one who grew into a glorious version of itself?"

Harry wrinkled his nose slightly. How he managed to make the expression anything less than a disaster upon his face, Draco didn't know, but he did. He did quite well, for that matter. "I didn't say it was an exact analogy. Just the beginning part."

Draco grunted. _Is he really that oblivious to himself, or is it natural for models to fish for compliments_? Draco had encountered such behaviour before, such a need for validation from the subjects of his shots. It was a little pathetic, in his opinion, and not only because it spoke of deep underlying insecurities. They always knew, at least a little, that their query was only in search of confirmation. For whatever reason, Harry sounded different again.

"I'm not so sure about that," Draco said, pinning Harry with a stare. Surely he couldn't be _that_ blind.

Harry blinked. He stared at Draco for a moment before shrugging and raising his hand to his hair once more. "Either way, it doesn't change the underlying problems. Von still despairs over my hair. I think he's compensating."

"For his lack of?"

"Exactly."

In spite of himself, Draco had to swallow a smile. It wouldn't do to admit that Harry's words actually amused him. Shaking his head slightly, he propped himself backwards against the bathroom counter, settling his folded arms a little more casually. "That wasn't what I was referring to, actually."

"Oh?" Harry returned his gaze back to his reflection, and though it was intently focused, he didn't appear to be glorifying in himself as Draco might have almost expected. It was more as though, just as Draco did, he assessed the shot of himself for flaws and just how much he could let those imperfections slide without directly editing the image.

"Yes," Draco continued. "You've become a prissy princess."

Harry's smile grew a little wider this time. "Can you blame me? When your whole job is about looking your best, wouldn't you do the same? Though I wouldn't exactly call myself a princess."

"What, ensuring your own devastating attractiveness isn't a princess' style?"

"Devastating attractiveness?" More self-deprecation, if brightened somewhat by his smile. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. I think the world just finds it difficult to have the image of an idol or hero or whatever without also having them as suitably handsome. Let's face it, we all know that's most of the reason I managed to get into modeling anyway."

Draco pressed his lips together firmly. _He's still an idiot, at least,_ he thought, almost comforted by the thought even if the circumstances disconcerted him slightly. Such obliviousness rubbed him the wrong way. _There's nothing wrong with recognising your own attractiveness. It's more foolish to overlook it entirely. I'd never be caught thinking ill of myself; I only have to look in the mirror, after all_.

"Regardless," he said, setting the thought aside for later consideration and infuriation. "Even outside of that, you've changed. It's… unexpected, to say the least." Which is was. What had happened to the glaring they'd shared that had been all but a competition? What of the scathing verbal strikes, the physical blows, the challenges to duels? And beyond that, even; Harry had been a spitting ball of agitated anger for most of the latter years of their acquaintance, and Draco didn't think it was only because they'd been rivals. The Dark Lord had surely had a hand in it, but for whatever reason, he was loud, he was obnoxious, and he was a violation of every kind of upstanding protocol that Draco had always lived by.

And he'd been just as obsessed with Draco as Draco had been with him. There was no denying that fact. So what had happened?

"You too," Harry said, breaking into his thoughts with another sidelong stare.

"Me too what?" Draco asked.

"You've changed too. In the past, you wouldn't have been able to even be in the same room as me without snapping at me."

"Me?" Draco snorted. "Don't deny that you were the primary instigator."

Harry shook his head. "No, I distinctly remember the instigation coming from you."

"Not hardly."

"Yeah. Mostly."

"Are you attempting to pick a fight to prove it?"

"No," Harry said simply, and Draco's retaliation died, because Harry wasn't. He really wasn't. "I'm just telling it how I saw it. And I see you as having changed to." He shrugged again. "I guess we've both matured a little."

Matured. Matured was one way of looking at it. Making a complete personality about-turn was another. Did Harry truly not realise it? Or was he deliberately hiding himself and his character for reasons unknown?

Draco wasn't sure, but the thought triggered another than had been itching at him for the past hours. A naggingly persistent thought that had grown more and more intense throughout Pansy's interview with the sense of wrongness.

"Does maturity also entail omitting certain truths?" he asked.

Harry blinked at him curiously, confusion touching his brow with the hint of a frown. Then it cleared slightly. Had Draco not been watching so intently, he might have missed the moment entirely.

Nonetheless, when Harry turned to face him front on, hip resting absently against the counter, he feigned ignorance with a cock of his head. "What are you referring about?"

Draco sniffed. There was no delicate way to go about making a demand for such truths, not with someone who deliberately lied. Even if there was, Draco had learnt to abandon courteous attempts. He wasn't quite the upstanding pureblood he'd once been, the pureblood he couldn't be when the world considered him so much less.

"The interview," he clarified. "You didn't tell the truth as you said you would."

For an extended moment, Draco thought that Harry might deny him. That he might continue to cling to his supposed ignorance and deny any such falsehoods on his part. But after that moment, broken only by the distant, indecipherable tune playing overhead and adding an almost soothing ambiance to the bathroom scene, Harry's lips drew to the side and he hitched a shoulder in a shrug.

"I didn't lie," he said.

"But you didn't tell the whole truth."

"What makes you think that?" Harry asked, genuine curiosity replacing the frown once more.

What had it been? When Draco thought about it, he couldn't pinpoint one thing precisely. Harry's attitude? No, for he was erratic enough – or at least different enough to the person Draco had known – that it would be difficult to tell. It wasn't his apparent ease in the situation either, for he was likely telling the when he said he'd experienced many such interviews before and no longer felt nervous. He'd likely been the centrepiece of too many pictures, and headlines, and stories that held little to no actual credibility, that it didn't bother him anymore. Draco could believe that. Familiarity bred resignation, after all. He was standing testimony to that fact himself.

No, what really drove Draco's speculation was his own memory. His own recollections. His own experience when he'd first met Harry, and that meeting hadn't been at Hogwarts. It hadn't even been on the train in that mortifying encounter that retrospect had Draco cringing at time and time again.

It was before that, in Diagon Alley, when Draco had been in Madam Malkin's being fitted for his robe. The frustratingly necessary fitting had been interrupted by a boy in oversized, patchy clothes, alone and peering into the shop with wide eyes and a mixture of fascination and wariness. That Harry had been nervous. He'd been tentative, if brave enough to step forward, even alone as he was. He'd been skinny and pale, and had breathed of the independence that Draco had only been able to recognise because he'd seen just such an attitude in his friend Blaise.

It was neglect. It was abandonment. Blaise had it, had been utterly self-sufficient in the face of his mother's careless pursuit of her own endeavours, but he'd at least had the provisions to presentably support himself. House elves were a part and parcel of pureblood households. Harry had the same feeling as Blaise, but he wore the signs of that neglect in his clothing, his emaciation, and in the way he all but jumped when Malkin addressed him.

The younger Draco had been dismissive. He'd been derisive, and arrogant, and condescending towards the boy who hadn't even enough money to dress himself properly, the boy who it became increasingly apparent knew next to nothing about the Wizarding world like some ignorant Muggle. Now, though – now Draco knew better, and the shame that accompanied his retrospection was almost crippling.

Draco couldn't shun anyone for their struggles. Not anymore. Not when he'd been forced to struggle himself for the past years with little enough to show for it.

Draco didn't reply to Harry's question. Instead, he posed one of his own. "What's the real truth?"

Harry cocked his head again. Any hint of a smile faded, and though Draco found himself regretting its loss, he didn't regret asking. The sudden need to know was abruptly fervent. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Draco paused before replying lowly – and truthfully, too, if not the whole truth. "I'm a curious person."

"If you think it's untrue, you must have speculations yourself," Harry said. Draco wondered if he knew he took the slightest step backwards as if cautiously edging away. "Make your own conclusions."

He didn't mean right then. Harry clearly didn't intend for Draco to announce those very conclusions at that moment. So, Draco did. "I think your relatives mistreated you. I think you spoke the truth that they disliked your magic, but I think it went beyond that. I think you were neglected, and that they didn't care for you, and that you're hiding that fact."

Harry blinked. He definitely wasn't smiling anymore. Beneath the smooth lines of the makeup that covered his face, Draco beheld genuine surprise. "What…?"

"I think they probably didn't care for you, even though everyone assumes you must have been in a household that fawned over you," Draco ploughed on brutally, even as he internally winced at his own words. They were too true of his own past opinions. "I think that's the reason you had the same clothes from first to sixth year, and why you were always thinner when you came back to school from the holidays, or why you stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas. I think you had a bloody bad time of it, and either you don't want to admit it to yourself or you don't want to admit it to anyone who asks. Which is it?"

Harry stared at him. The curl of his fringe, perfectly placed as Draco had never thought possible of a younger Harry, covered just a hint of his eye. Surprise had faded into cool blankness. Not anger, but blankness. Not annoyance, or frustration, or hatred for Draco, but simply nothing. His hand rested atop the counter alongside him, fingers drumming so slightly that it was almost imperceptible.

When he spoke, it was in little more than a murmur that didn't so much as half-echo in the hollowness of the tiled bathroom. "More's the question of why you'd care?"

Draco felt his eye twitch. He felt his jaw clench and his arms tremble slightly as they tightened in their fold. _Why do I care? Why do I bloody…?_

He didn't. Shouldn't. Never had. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter didn't care for one another. Or they weren't supposed to. That was always the way, had always been and always would be. Draco would announce it to the papers himself if he thought it would do any good in solidifying the fact. It might even manage to diffuse some of the rearing hatred being heaped upon him.

Except that Harry had saved Draco from fiendfyre. He'd stood for him in court. He'd given him his wand back, and he hadn't asked for anything in return. And, after that, when Draco had returned to London, he hadn't hated him. He hadn't even seemed to dislike him.

Draco didn't care about Harry and Harry didn't care about him. Or that was how it was supposed to be. Draco didn't let himself wonder why that thought felt like a lie itself.

Instead of answering Harry's question once more, he posed his own. "Why won't you let everyone know?"

Harry blinked. Just blinked. That was all.

"Why don't you tell them you were mistreated? Do you honestly believe you weren't?"

No reply.

"Why don't you blame them for what was done to you? You were only a child. Don't you feel any resentment whatsoever?" Draco clicked his tongue sharply. "Hell, if you did, half of London would rise spitting and screaming to your defence and likely start a manhunt for –"

"That's why," Harry interrupted him.

"What?"

Harry shook his head and, with unexpected derision, rolled his eyes. "I don't care for my relatives, but I don't want a fucking lynch-mob coming after them. Fuck, Draco, I'm not that cruel."

Draco's throat became abruptly dry. "Even after what they did to you?" _After what you're not denying they did to you?_

Harry shook his head. "No. I don't care anymore. It's in the past."

"Other people would care." Draco's words came out in a grumble. "Others would care, and they'd want recompense."

"Which is exactly why no one's going to know."

Harry spoke so simply, so firmly, as though there was no question in the matter. As though revealing the truth as he was supposed to, as he had but for some distinct omissions that weren't exactly lying but instead stood to boost the half-truths in a better light, wasn't even a possibility on the table. It angered Draco to no end for reasons he couldn't rightly explain.

"You're letting them get away with it," Draco said lowly. "Without any kind of repayment, you're…"

"Sometimes it's better just to let things lie," Harry said just as quietly.

It wasn't right. That wasn't how Harry Potter was supposed to be. He shouldn't lie down and play dead, accepting whatever had and would befall him. It wasn't the person that Draco had known and hated from afar – and maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he couldn't quite hate him anymore, even if his stubbornness was infuriating to no end.

"I wonder if you'd be so lenient if such a thing happened to another child," Draco said before he could help himself.

Harry's stare flattened. Like a hawk glaring at its foe, he stared at Draco unwaveringly, and Draco couldn't look away. If anything, he felt almost spellbound, his breath catching in his throat, and might have even been tempted to retract his words had it persisted any longer for longer than a few seconds.

Except that Harry's phone interrupted them. The jingle it emitted rippled and echoed off the tiled walls, and Draco wasn't the only one of them that flinched just a little. The moment broken, the focus of his gaze shattered, Harry drew his phone from his pocket and glanced briefly at the screen. When he lowered it, he spared Draco a brief glance and a smile. A real smile, not feigned, as though the moment of cold anger so unlike the rage he'd once worn so often hadn't existed at all.

"I've got to take this," he said, stepping around Draco and making for the door. "I'll see you later, Draco. If you're interested, I've heard the coffee's better at the place across the road than down on the ground floor."

Then, with the swing of a door and the momentary influx of murmured voices and thumping footsteps, Harry disappeared into the hallway. The door eased shut behind him, its final click leaving Draco in utter isolation.

Alone with his thoughts, Draco couldn't help but wonder. Why was it, exactly, that he'd suddenly decided to care so much?

* * *

A/N: Thank you again to the lovely people still reading this story. And even more so to those who have reviewed! Honestly, you don't even know just how wonderful hearing your thoughts is, so thank you so, so much.


	7. Chapter 7

WARNING: this chapter contains references to drug use and abuse, as well as mentions of eating disorders and eating disorder behaviour. If you think this might be triggering for you, please read carefully.  
Also, references to character promiscuity plays a pretty strong part in this chapter in particular. It's not necessarily long-standing and persistent throughout the entire fic, but just be aware if this makes you uncomfortable.

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

The studio was sparsely cluttered with stands and utensils that Harry knew the nature of only from a distant perspective. Lights with oversized heads pointed towards the whitewashed partitions, three in strategic placement with their umbrella heads angled just so. A stand that would boost the camera itself in line with those lights, tripod planted wide-legged. Beams and overhangs suspended above the scene, cables lining the walls, a desk with a thin scatter of papers along the back wall alongside a second door partially opened.

All of that was familiar, and it wasn't what disconcerted Harry.

The minimal crew, the same that were in company at the interview the day before, stood around the edges of the room. Von, because despite only being a stylist in name, he was always permitted into the shoots, and a pair of _Syren_ attendants each dressed in varying degrees of black and in various states of business.

Harry didn't recognise either of them, and they were less involved than usual for a shoot, but that wasn't what disconcerted him, either.

It wasn't that the room was uncharacteristically quiet. It wasn't that the studio manager had stepped in but minutes before, cast a quick glance around, before departing as though she'd been forcibly kicked out. It wasn't that there was tangible tension thrumming against and rebounding off the walls, starting and ending at the photographer.

It was the photographer himself. But it wasn't that Harry's discomfort even arose from the fact that it was Draco who stood behind the camera. It was how he looked at him.

Harry was used to being looked at. In some way or another, he found he always was these days. The excited fans on the street that recognised his face when he didn't hide himself well enough. The calculating, assessing stares of the casting directors and photographers alike as they clinically assessed his suitability for the role in form, in poise. The challenging or threatening or discomforted sidelong stares of his fellow models, the models that he'd never quite meshed with because _Estallas_ had a small enough cohort of its own and had been largely shunned for its insignificance for years.

And because he was Harry Potter. That always put a bit of a dampener on things.

Wary, considering, frowning or dissatisfied. Curious, lustful, admiring or adoring. He'd seen such a wide array of stares and glares that none should have bothered him anymore. None _should_ have. But Draco's did.

How he stared was calculating. It was considering. But it was also curious, and frowning, and just a little objectionable and… something else. Was there a hint of attraction? Was there such a weight behind the way he paused in his work, straightened briefly, and stared at Harry for an extended pause before urging him to move 'just so', or to reposition himself 'like that'.

Harry didn't know. He wasn't sure, and the unfamiliarity of not knowing left him feeling oddly exposed in a way that he hadn't felt since his first casting had demanded he take his shirt off. Not since his first assessor had told him he was 'too fat' and 'should probably work out more', and his first rejection notice had given him a thorough rundown of exactly why he wasn't good enough for the job. Not even when someone had stalked him with a camera for a time and sold some grainy but distinct enough photos to a magazine that had impeded any job offers for a solid month.

Draco stared, and Harry felt as if he'd been stripped more soundly than any fitting had found him. The echo of Draco's words from the previous day still rung in his mind.

 _"Why don't you blame them for what was done to you?"_ and _"Don't you feel any resentment whatsoever?"_ And, worst of all, _"I wonder if you'd be so lenient if such a thing happened to another child."_

Harry couldn't say anything to that. Not a thing, and it wasn't because he didn't have a reply. It was simply that he knew Draco wouldn't like the answer.

He didn't blame the Dursleys. Not anymore. He couldn't find it within himself to care for their part in his messy past, and any resentment he may have once felt had been overwhelmed by more. By worse. By what had followed and had nothing to do with the Dursleys at all. How could Harry explain any of that to Draco when it was, by and large, so complicated and inexplicable?

But more than that…

 _If it happened to another child, I think I might even be able to use the_ Cruciatus _Curse_ , Harry thought. The idea was dampening, but it was true. Utterly, completely true.

Draco stared at Harry with his confusing spectrum of emotions, and he made Harry think. He made him consider the hypocrisy of his own thoughts, and for once Harry felt almost ashamed for letting everything, all of that hate and anger and resentment, just go. Even if it was necessary. Even if he had to in order to properly move on.

The only escape was for Harry to sink into his work and breathe, to steel himself with composure and to think only of the impression he wanted – no, had to present. The oversized shirt that be was bedecked in for the shoot was a strange parody of sorts, as though mimicking and thus highlighting the sorry dress of his childhood, but Harry used it. He curled the hem between his hands, and he hitched a shoulder, and he posed just as Draco wanted him to. Just as Draco didn't quite tell him but how Harry felt he should nonetheless.

Draco stared, though his camera and then without it, and Harry stared right back. At least from Draco, and at least in this instance, he had nothing to hide.

* * *

"You're telling me not once?"

Harry shook his head as he took another sip of his vodka soda. The hint of lime was all that offset the fizziness that bubbled up the back of his nose.

"Not even once?"

Harry shook his head again.

With an incredulous scoff, Ron rocked back on his stool. The sound was all but lost beneath the surrounding din of the club; the dancefloor thundered with music and the shouts of conversation around the bar and tables rose to compensate. At nearly midnight, the crowds had thickened, and Harry was only more grateful for Hermione's sensibility that insisted they arrive before ten to leave at a 'decent' hour.

As it was, Hermione, seated alongside Ron, was already red-cheeked and woozy after two hours of drinking. She didn't hold her liquor well, which was likely half the reason she chose to leave early most nights they went out together. Ginny had her arm slung around Hermione's shoulders in an effort to keep her upright and was laughing jovially at something Harry hadn't heard.

It had become a Friday night tradition amongst them. Though Harry's friends invaded his flat at any given moment, and similarly invaded Hermione's house whenever Ginny could all but kidnap Harry to join them, the club had become a habit that was as ingrained as Harry's work schedule. It was easy to set it on a Friday night, easy to come after work finished, because work for each of them ended as variably as the rest of their schedules.

Harry himself wasn't particularly partial to the club atmosphere – or at least to certain aspects of it. The dancing was fine, and he'd even become comfortable with stepping onto the dancefloor when he'd finally learnt what to do with his hands. The conversations privatised by the din and the occasional drink were a bonus, too.

But clubbing itself? Or, more correctly, the kind of clubbing that Harry had been all but dragged along to in his early days of modelling? He hadn't enjoyed that. He hadn't enjoyed it at all, and those obligatory experiences had all but turned him off them entirely.

The bouts of drowning in endless drinks, only to hasten to the nearest bathroom or corner and forcibly upend their guts in a fit of guilt for imbibing.

The party drugs palmed between attendants that stood to close, slipped under tongues, hidden in pockets when the barmen or bouncers looked their way.

The frenzy, the fervour, the maddened laughter that arose when those very drugs took hold, and the subsequent collapses, or more vomiting, or the seizure he'd witnessed once when someone had tried a bad batch.

The thick stink of dirty sweat. The pre-sex that undulated on the dancefloor, barely decent and shucking clothes in the wrong places. The actual act itself, as often in dark corners and crowded booths as in the bathroom or back corridors off the main floor. Harry had seen it all and then some, and he'd experienced more than his fair share of it. He'd learnt much from his experiences, and not all of it in a good way.

He knew the slightly off taste of a spiked drug well enough by now. He'd learnt how to stick his hands down his throat when he's 'slipped' with a little too much drink, emptying his belly to avoid the effects of such a slip upon his fitness and health routine. He could recognise when a stray hand wasn't an accidental but intentional slip. He knew the difference between stares that asked and those that demanded, and he'd learnt how to deflect as much as acknowledge and even welcome then.

Harry no longer joined his modelling 'friends' in their parties, but he'd been to enough clubs and seen enough to know that he didn't want to reattempt such an endeavour.

Though the club that he found himself in that night was obnoxiously loud, thundering with a heavy bass, and reeking of the typical scents of alcohol, sweat, and lust, Harry didn't mind so much. His friends didn't demand anything of him – or at least not in the way that his nights in his past had.

At that moment, his voice just beginning to slur with drink, Ron was making a different kind of demand. Nudging aside his beer glass, he hitched himself up in his chair a little and plopped his elbows heavily onto the table. He stared at Harry as Harry took another swirl and sip of his vodka, frowning just slightly as though he couldn't understand what Harry had just told him. Likely he really couldn't.

"Explain," Ron said.

"What do you want me to say?" Harry said, absently grazing his hand through his hair. He settled his tumbler down upon the table alongside Ron's glass. "We were kids back then, Ron. And no, just because there's history between us doesn't mean I'm obligated to hate him."

"Bullshit," Ron grumbled. "This is Malfoy."

"Draco," Harry said, because he couldn't help himself. Really, 'Malfoy'? Resorting to the use of surnames seemed such a petty way of expressing discontent. "And yes, I know. I was actually with him all of Monday and Tuesday."

"How the bloody hell did you survive?"

Harry shrugged. "He's not as much of an ass as he used to be, I guess."

"I call bullshit on that, too."

"Maybe you should drop by and meet him, then. You can come to the next shoot or something if you'd like. I'm sure I could ask Dot to pull some strings."

Most likely Harry could organise no such thing in any official context. He didn't have that kind of power, despite what people seemed to think he was entitled to with his supposed position. Harry wasn't fooled; he was a face in a picture, not the depth behind it. It was a surprisingly liberating position to be in, or so he'd discovered over the years.

But it didn't matter that he wouldn't actually be able to invite Ron along. Dot and Pansy both had spoken of inviting Harry's friends in for a shoot to include in the series, but he had little enough involvement in the decision at this point. Outside of the interview series, it wasn't worth the bother. Ron had about as little concern for fashion and modelling as Hermione, though he did partake of spending on what he termed 'nice clothes' with the money he'd never had before. At Harry's suggestion, however, he only wrinkled his nose and made a retching sound.

"No," he said, poking his tongue out in the image of disgust. "No, I'm good. I'm just… Mate, I can't believe you haven't actually had a single argument with him. Not once?"

Fiddling up his tumbler, Harry only shrugged again. He wouldn't call their Monday afternoon confrontation an argument. Not really. As Harry had also gradually realised, if he decided it wasn't, most of the time it really wasn't. Arguments – or fights – tended to develop on the basis that both parties expected them to proceed. Harry had learnt that it was almost easy to dodge or deflect a challenge when he denied participation in them.

"Ah, that's our Harry," Ginny said, abruptly throwing her free arm around Harry's neck and dragging him towards her. "Ever the pacifist."

"Yeah, _now_ ," Ron said emphatically, frowning at his half-empty glass. "Weren't you the one who faced off against Voldemort? I seem to remember you doing something like that."

"Technically, I wasn't the one who killed him," Harry pointed out."

"Yes, and – and that's in the _past_ ," Hermione broke in, her words slurring as she leant into Ron. The motion dragged Ginny along with her, and subsequently Harry until he was half-hauled around the small, round table. "It's in the _past_ , Ron, so you – you shouldn't… You can't just make –"

"Yeah, don't make assumptions," Ginny said, shooting Ron a scowl that Harry didn't believe in the sincerity of for a moment. Ginny wasn't an angry drunk, but she was certainly a theatrical one. "Our poor Harry, just trying to make his way in the world –"

"I didn't accuse him of anything," Ron said, returning her scowl.

"Harry, who wouldn't even raise his wand to kill a fly –"

"Bad idea," Hermione mumbled. "Bad idea, killin' a fly with a… with a wand."

" – and who's just trying to make nice with Draco so they can finally get around to shaggin' after all these years."

Unfortunately, Ron had taken that moment to finish off his drink. In a violent spray, he coated the table in spit and beer, spluttering and gasping as he did so. Hermione rocked in her seat, blinking at him owlishly – Harry wondered if she'd reached the blurry-eyed stage of her drunkenness yet – while Ginny burst into cackles of laughter.

Ron ignored her. Instead, still spluttering, he turned back towards Harry, demands stuttering from his lips. Harry idly swirled his glass again as he waited for him to gather himself.

With a ragged gasp, Ron reached a grasping hand towards him. "You – you can't, mate," he said, oblivious to Ginny's hyena impression. "You can't fuck Malfoy. Mate, seriously –"

"Ron, I won't," Harry said.

"There are so many other fish in the sea, so many better pickings. You could have – hell, I'd even prefer you shag Ginny –"

"Hey! I'm not a fucking piece of meat, Ron."

"Misogynist," Hermione muttered, and Harry wondered just how much of the conversation she was actually keeping up with.

"I'm not a misogynist," Ron said, swinging his wide-eyed attention towards her. His face seemed even paler than usual in the darkness of the club, offset by the scattering strobe lights seeping from the dance floor. "I'm just saying, surely even you'd prefer –"

"I would not," Ginny said. Extricating her arm from around Hermione while simultaneously almost crushing Harry's head into her shoulder in a tight squeeze, she stabbed a finger at him. "They'd be totally hot together, and you know it."

"Don't be disgusting!"

"What, so now you're a homophobe too?"

"Damn homophobes," Hermione muttered.

"I'm not a homophobe either!" Ron all but shouted. It was likely a good thing that the music was so loud, as Harry had it on good authority that a good proportion of the club would take personal offense to the very word. "I just don't want to think of my best friend and his arch-enemy in the sack together. Is that too much to ask?"

"I'd actually rather you didn't imagine me in the sack with anyone, to be honest," Harry said, more to himself than to Ron.

"Alcohol really brings out the worst in you, Ron," Ginny said, shaking her head exaggeratedly. "You bastard. To think, my own brother."

"I'm not!"

"For shame. For utter shame, that you'd be such a discriminative asshole when two of your best friends are girls and or gay."

"I said I'm not!"

"Harry," Ginny turned her face into his temple and planted a wet kiss on his brow, "don't worry. Even if Ron's a massive git, I'll still stick by you. You can still shag Draco."

Ron was all but frothing at the mouth. "What – what are you even -?"

Harry chose that moment to ignore him. Apparently Ginny has decided it was pick-on-Ron-night, which was a welcome reprieve given that, more often than not, he found himself as the target of such teasing. It was nice that Ron would be burdened by it for once rather than partaking.

"Can I get you a top-up?" he asked of Ginny instead.

"Yah," Ginny said, leaning away from him with a wink and a toothy grin. "Thanks, darl."

"Maybe I shouldn't. You're pissed."

"Love, you're the only one of us who isn't." Ignoring Ron herself as he continued to splutter, Ginny pointed a dismissive finger at his half-finished glass. "It's 'cause you drink like a bird, Harry. Put it away a little faster and you'd be up to your fourth round like the rest of us."

Harry didn't reply, just as he didn't point out that they were actually on their fifth round. Extricating himself from Ginny's hold, he spared Ron a vaguely apologetic glance before ducking away from their table and leaving him to Ginny's assault. Their exclamations were quickly lost behind him as he made his way towards the bar.

Ironically, the club _Rowdy's_ wasn't the rowdiest of places Harry had found himself. If anything, though the bar was packed and the dancefloor just as much, it was almost tame in comparison to those Harry had been in before. They had a very firm No Drugs policy which was part of the reason it frequented as Harry's primary suggestion. There was likely still a hand or two that slipped under a table or over a drink without notice, but Harry personally hadn't had any bad experiences, and that was enough for him.

Winding his way to the bar, he hailed the barman with a gesture that took a solid five minutes to be noticed. When the barman sidled towards him, a pair of drinks in hand that he palmed off to the woman alongside Harry, he flashed him a brief nod.

"What'll you have?"

"Another beer on tap," Harry said, "and just a straight bourbon."

"Sure thing," the barman said. "Nothing for yourself?"

Harry spared him a smile and a shake of his head. He knew the man recognised him just as he recognised him in return, and he wasn't particularly surprised to be asked. 'Drinking like a bird' didn't go unnoticed by most people. But Harry withheld for more than his dietary regime; Von always liked to remind him to hold back if he had any sense.

"Skinny twits can't hold their liquor," he'd said countless times, and not only to Harry. It seemed a common reminder he gifted to models whenever one threatened to invite him out for an evening.

Harry heeded him. Von was practically his nanny, after all.

Leaning back against the bar, Harry propped his elbows on the counter and turned his regard upon the club. The sunken dancefloor was a jumping, bobbing mass of bodies, more like one fluid creature than separate entities. The raised floor surrounding it was almost as crowded, with every table was filled to bursting, and a constant stream of clubbers disappeared and reappeared again from the darkened corridor leading to the restrooms.

Harry watched, and he pondered. Clubbing wasn't necessarily his scene, but he didn't particularly mind it. He didn't think he'd ever be the type of person that would spend night after night getting lost in the throes of madness and drink, even if he didn't have his work to consider. When Harry's friends said he'd mellowed out, he supposed that meant as a party-goer too, though he didn't think he'd ever been much of one to begin with.

 _Some people just have it_ , he thought idly, watching as a pair of young women latched onto one another, the shorter stretching on her toes to plant a sloppy kiss on the corner of the taller one's mouth. _I'm not the only one in the industry, either. I bet someone like Draco wouldn't be either._

Harry blinked. Then he almost snorted at himself and his train of thought. Ginny and her suggestions were putting ideas into his head. As if he hadn't been contemplating Draco and the strangeness of their relationship, of Draco's shoot, and of the words that continued to echo in his mind enough already. He truly hadn't considered the prospect as more than a passing thought, a recognition of attractiveness, until Ginny had elaborated on it. But when he thought about it…

Draco was fit. He was tall, and lean, and his features were the kind that would cast the perfect shadows before the right angle of a camera. He possessed the kind of aloofness that bespoke entitlement the likes of which Harry might have expected he'd lost to the war, and his sentence, and the ostracism he was likely facing as just about every other ex-Death Eater that hadn't been imprisoned faced. It was just a little captivating to witness, and Harry knew he wasn't removed from being caught like a feeble moth in a spider's web.

But it wasn't going to happen. Harry didn't have the same problem with Draco as Ron clearly still possessed, but he was realistic enough to know that the likelihood of anything occurring between then was so minute it was practically zero. While Harry had moved beyond the past and could barely recall the type of person he'd been when he'd hated Malfoy, Draco was different. He had to be different. Surely.

Even if he did call Harry by his name.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Shaken from his thoughts, Harry turned towards the voice at his side. He had a moment to make out blond hair, a crooked smile, and a swagger even in stillness, before a brief bout of 'oops' rose within him. A face didn't always help to alleviate the blank absence of a name.

 _I know this guy,_ he thought, painting a smile on his face. _I know him, but his name is…?_

This was one of the reasons Harry didn't always go to _Rowdy's_. Unfortunate confrontations were made only more likely in frequent haunts.

"Hi," Harry said, raising his voice to match the man's.

"Haven't seen you in a while," the man said. "We didn't get a chance to exchange numbers last time. Where've you been?"

 _What's his name, what's his name, what…_ "If I'm going to be boringly truthful, working," Harry replied.

The man laughed. It was a loud laugh, a good laugh, and profoundly genuine. Harry could see why he'd liked him in the past. "Yeah, I can commiserate with that. It's been mayhem at work with Valentine's Day and all, though that was a few months ago."

 _Valentine's Day? Where…?_ A flicker of memory, something about a florist, breezed across the surface of Harry's mind, but it disappeared before he could grab hold of it. "I'll bet," he said. He glanced over his shoulder as the barman reappeared behind him with a gesture of the two glasses he held. "I'm actually here with friends."

"Oh." The man's smile faded slightly, though not completely. "Me too, though they're all practically smashed already."

Harry laughed a little, and the man's smile widened once more. "Yeah, you and me both."

"Really?" he asked, volume rising with more enthusiasm than Harry's words should have incited.

It was obvious. It was so blatantly obvious what was going through the man's mind that Harry didn't even bother pretending he didn't see it. He knew what attraction looked like. He knew the particular light of lust in someone's stare, the way that stare would flicker downwards just briefly before catching itself. He knew what was being asked without words.

 _And why not? He's fit enough, and he wants it, so why not?_

With a mental shrug, Harry scooped up Ron and Ginny's drinks. He spared the man a small smile, a different kind of smile, and tipped his head towards his friends' table. "I'll drop these off," he said, "then did you want to get out of here?"

The man didn't need to reply. He followed like a dog on Harry's heel as Harry wove back through the club, leaving any thoughts of Draco, work, and anything at all behind him.

* * *

Smoke curled in artful swirls towards the pale ceiling, barely visible in the darkened room. Harry watched it coil, blinking lazily, before tucking his arm beneath his pillow and propping himself a little higher upright.

"You know," he murmured, "it's kind of ironic that you smoke when you sell flowers."

Simon – for Harry had blessedly recalled his name before they'd stumbled into the unlit apartment – glanced towards him. His eyes were very dark in the shadows. Very intent in their stare. "Why?"

Harry turned to face him, tucking his other arm under the pillow to join the first as he shuffled onto his side. "Well, I have it on good authority that flowers burn."

Simon's smile spread around the butt of his dwindling cigarette. He had a good smile, too. A good smile and a good laugh. He rolled onto his side, propping his elbow and resting his head upon his fist. "Such botanical lore," he teased, taking another drag. "You're practically a florist yourself."

"You could say that," Harry murmured. He closed his eyes when Simon, cigarette captured between his fingers, reached towards him and grazed a finger down the side of his face. The smell of smoke wasn't particularly tasteful, but Harry could overlook it.

"You'll give me your number this time?" Simon said just as quietly. Yet even in its quietness, Harry could hear the edge of a demand. A want. A need? Maybe not quite, but that forcefulness was definitely there.

 _And why not?_ he thought as he always did. _Why not?_

He never told them his real name. He never shared what he actually did as a profession, and should any of them pry too deeply or learn too much, he erased himself from their memories with a well-aimed _Obliviate_. Harry wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not to consider himself about as practiced in the art of afflicting memory loss as Gilderoy Lockheart had once been. He certainly wouldn't ask of the morality of his actions from Hermione; memory spells were a sore spot for her.

Smiling easily, Harry nodded. That barest affirmation was apparently enough for Simon. Reaching behind himself to the nightstand, he discarded his cigarette butt and slid across the distance between them. He levered himself over Harry, finger rising to trace his face once more, and when he dropped into a kiss, deep and hungry, it tasted of tobacco.

Harry didn't particularly like it. He didn't like it, but he allowed it. Because why not? Simon wanted it, and Harry didn't _not_ want it, so why not? He allowed himself to sink into the thick taste, the heat of Simon's hands, and the weight of him as he pressed Harry into the unfamiliar bed to be lost in skin, and warmth, and gasping breath.

 _Why not? Really, why not?_

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all the of the lovely people keeping up with this fic, and especially to those who have been reviewing. I appreciate it so much, and I'm sorry that it always takes me ages to get around to replying to your lovely words!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The kettle whistled.

Groaning, Draco struggled to peel his eyes open. He glared across his room at the wall and the offending kettle beyond, considered snatching at his wand to fling a charm its way and have it shut the bloody hell up, but instead sighed in defeat. Work. Work was the reason he set his kettle to boil like an alarm clock in the first place. The threat of a potential in-house fire was always more incentive to get out of bed than any alarm could possibly be.

Dragging himself upright, Draco scrubbed his face briefly and rolling from bed. He stopped briefly in the kitchen to inhibit a kettle catastrophe before heading to the shower and proceeding to drown himself in searing water for the next ten minutes. It didn't exactly leave him refreshed, but he was markedly more so than he'd been before.

His flat wasn't even brightening with the glow of daylight yet. The white walls, box-like and just a little too tight for his liking, were dampened to grey. Pansy had told him once that his objection to what he deemed the small size of his living quarters had more to do with the fact that he was accustomed to manor living standards, and that he should suck it up and get used to it.

"Oh, and you'd know all about 'getting used to it', would you?" he'd asked.

"Yes," she'd replied simply in return. No inflection. No teasing. It was that flatness that resounded with Draco, hinting at the wound of change buried beneath scar tissue, and he didn't pry further.

Over the years, Draco supposed he had gotten used to it. The middle floor flat wasn't ideal, but if was sufficient. The location wasn't perfect, but it was vaguely central and easy enough to get to and from even without Apparition. The kitchen was neat and clean, if empty of working house elves, and the living room, the bedroom, the dining room that was practically part of the living room itself, was all furnished before he'd moved in. Draco had made it his own, darkening the wooden surfaces and adorning them with enough remnants of home that the small rooms felt almost like it.

It wasn't perfect, but then, few things truly were.

Meticulously folding up the sleeves of his shirt as he stepped from the steaming bathroom, Draco paused in his bedroom only long enough to grab his wand before making for the kitchen. A flick, a muttered word, and the kettle was pouring itself, a plate flipping from the cupboard, and toast that had been pre-set to cook flying towards the butter as it shouldered its way from the fridge. The simple breakfast had set itself by the time Draco took his seat at the small table, loosely affixing his tie as he did so.

Jam. Butter. Milk. A napkin, because he wasn't a Neanderthal. Draco was just about to pick up his toast when the first of them came.

 _Tap-tap-tap._

Draco paused. He closed his eyes briefly, prayed for the strength to withhold from firing a hex, and turned slowly towards the window. It was a struggle not to glare at the oblivious owl perched on the window sill.

"Would you just fuck off for once?" he muttered, more to himself than to the bird, but he flicked his wand at the latch nonetheless and the owl hopped inside. He'd learnt that it was better to simply accept the rain of mail in the morning than attempt to avoid it – though avoid he'd managed to do of late. It was part of the reason he got up so early. The part that had nothing to do with punctuality for work.

The owl was a bit of a mangy creature, grey feathers tufted at odd angles about its head, and Draco regarded it with distaste as it hopped and fluttered towards the table, nearly face-planting as it made the leap from the window sill. He picked up his plate and raised it out of reach of feather lice as it approached him, and, with his wand rather than his fingers, untied the letter from its ankle. As soon as it was freed, the owl turned and, in another spray of downy feathers, it was gone.

Draco barely noticed it leave. He regarded the letter distastefully for a moment, considered exploding his table in an effort to avoid what was to come, then revised his decision. He'd only just managed to toss a Muffling Charm at the door, the windows, the walls, when the letter began to shudder, steam and hiss, and he snapped the wax seal.

It burst into a scream of noise.

 _"_ _Malfoy, you are a disgusting devil. You make me sick. You couldn't just be a disgusting fucking arsehole in the war, could you? You couldn't just kill people, and scare people, and fight for the wrong fucking side and – and all that."_

"So eloquent," Draco muttered, rolling his eyes. If anything, the words were terribly uninspired.

 _"_ _But you don't get it, do you? Even two years locked away in what everyone knows wasn't good enough punishment for you isn't enough for you to get it, huh? You have to keep on taking and taking and taking and –"_

"Here we go."

 _"_ _It's not right. You Death Eater scum, you goddamn bastard, it's not right that you should walk free in the first place, but you're the one who's taking Harry Potter's pictures? You're shooting the interviews and... and... How dare you. You disgust me. How could you even understand what he means to the world? You don't know how important he is to us, to all of us who lost people in the war to murderers like you, and you presume to…"_

Considering how many such letters Draco received – and almost every day, at that – they were remarkably similar. He was hated. He was a murderer. He'd hurt people, killed people, and some even accused him of killing their loved ones directly.

He was scum.

He was a bastard, despite what Draco liked to consider was his rather credible heritage.

He wasn't worth the air he breathed, and so on and so forth.

But most importantly, and perhaps the most common uniting feature: he shouldn't be anywhere near Harry Potter.

Once, Draco might have scoffed and agreed. He might have declared that he didn't bloody well want to have anything to do with Harry, and that he would get away from him if he could but that it was an opportunity that he couldn't miss. He might have even dropped the job that was like finding a diamond in a sea of sand, because Draco didn't care about Harry and the job wasn't worth the trouble.

Except it was. And he did care. In some way that Draco didn't quite understand himself, he realised he cared because Harry was fascinating. He'd always been fascinating, in whatever form he'd presented himself, but this was different. Seeing him without the filter of hatred, Draco had realised that there were infinitely more layers he hadn't noticed before, and an infinite number of secrets untold that he had yet to dig out and discover for himself.

And that was to say nothing of the job. Regardless of what the public might think of him, the job as Harry Potter's photographer for his official interviews, the interviews that he'd actually agreed to and even actively pursued himself, was sure to garner him attention. Even if not in the Wizarding world, it would put his name out amidst the Muggles. It was worth it, even if it meant weathering the death threats for a time.

 _"…_ _should just bloody well kill yourself, you disgusting menace to society,"_ the Howler spat contemptuously, predictably, before hissing in another fit of steam and bursting into flame.

"A menace to society?" Draco chuckled as he swept up the little pile of ash with a flick of his wand. "Well, that's a little more imaginative than most, I suppose."

If anything, the Howlers had become expected. They'd become amusing, if in a rather dark way. Draco almost regretted that they burnt themselves to dust before he could make a copy of them to plaster in a collage upon his wall. It would have been funny.

He did regret the pain that drove their delivery, however. Just a little. He regretted that there were so many that hated him, not so much because he disliked being hated but because he hadn't wanted to hurt anyone. Not like that. He regretted that so many of the Wizarding world believed he'd killed someone. Anyone. Many people, in fact.

The very thought turned Draco's stomach. Him? Kill someone? He didn't think he was capable of it. Despite the brief, discomforting tightening in his belly, he picked up his toast and took a deliberate bite in the echoing silence of the Howler's destruction.

 _Just another day at work_ , he thought to himself, and ignored that his urge to laugh had just the slightest hysterical edge to it.

* * *

Draco was having a bad day.

He should have known it would be bad by the second Howler. And the third. And the fourth. He usually managed to get out of his flat before most of them found him, returning home of an evening to find annoying little piles of ash scattered throughout the living room and across the dining table that were swept into nothing with a spell or two. But that day, they found him before he managed to escape. Upon reflection, Draco thought it could have even been a warning of sorts by some twist of fate.

He left even earlier than usual as a result, all but fleeing out the door of his own flat. Even so, even at such an early hour, the traffic was horrendous, and Draco cursed that he hadn't simply Apparated. To hell with all the Muggles who would 'potentially question' his lack of visible use of transport should he deny catching the bus. To hell with the _Syren_ contract that demanded he catch said bus for at least the final few stops to keep up the act.

The rain that splattered him as soon as he climbed onto the curb. The receptionist that waylaid him when he entered the building with a frowning, "Who are you?" as though she didn't recognise him – which she likely didn't; _Syren_ was a big company, after all. The lift that was crammed with more people than he was used to at such an hour, too. Where were they all coming from?

Draco should have accepted it was a bad day and decided to go home. To hell too with the interview that he was supposed to film. He didn't even like filming all that much. Photography was his passion, had become his passion. He shouldn't have to side-line it out of necessity.

But he did. He had. And despite the warning signs that bespoke promise of the day getting only worse, Draco stayed at work.

When the elevator pinged and the doors slid smoothly open, Draco all but elbowed his fellow passengers out of the way to climb out. Huffing to himself, he absently straightened his shirt, swept a hand down his buttoned vest, and adjusted his tie before striding down the stupidly narrow hallways in the direction of studio eleven.

As head photographer on the job, Draco had his own space. It was hardly considerable, was little more than a section of the back rooms off the studio than any kind of office workspace, and had an only partially concealed view into the dressing rooms for the models in one direction and the consultation space in the other. But it was Draco's space, and he made do.

Crossing to his desk, he plucked the file Pansy had handed him weeks before from the top of a pile of similar papers, and fell to scanning the loose script for that day that he'd already been over countless times. Within seconds, Draco was lost in his work – in considerations, speculations, angles, and directions he planned to take.

The dressing room, accessible to both studio ten and eleven as the only two on the floor, niggled only peripherally at Draco's attention. He ignored it. The consultation room on his other side roiled with noise that peaked before descended into silence intermittently, and he ignored that too. The clock was ticking towards eight and Draco was frowning at the spread of draft shots he'd taken the previous week scattered across the table, hands steepled to lean over them, when another wave of noise signalled more entrants into the dressing room.

Only when an exclamation of "Harry!" sounded did he even spare the room a glance. A glance, and then a stare. Why did he always stare? Draco didn't know, but he couldn't quite help himself.

Draco didn't see Harry outside of work hours. Not really. There had been their initial consultations with Picard and Pansy in tow, Von always watching with keen attentiveness like the guard dog he was. There were the interviews themselves, and Draco had little enough to do with them outside of his filming. Then there were the shoots, and though Draco was in charge, though he could conduct the proceedings and direct just as he wanted, it was ultimately still work.

As such, he'd never seen Harry like this. Not smiling and even laughing casually to a man Draco detachedly recognised as a casting director he'd seen a handful of times around _Syren._ Not idly bumping shoulders with that man, accepting the gentle clasp of his hand upon his shoulder that to Draco's eyes seemed just a little too intimate. He'd never seen Harry like that, and most notably not in the guise of what appeared to be the midpoint between the model he was and the teenage Saviour he'd been.

He wore glasses, for one. Not the old pair he'd once had, but ones that actually fit and suited him. His hair was as much of a curled mess as it always was, yet less stylistically so than usual. His oversized jumper wasn't quite the same as had been the unfitted clothes of his past; he tucked the sleeves comfortably over his hands as though they were intentionally but casually long, and the open collar sat just wide enough to expose his collar bones. Draco may have been staring at them just a little too long, too.

Harry had never been big. He wasn't tiny either – or at least hadn't been in his later years at school – and stood barely an inch or two shorter than Draco. It made him short by modelling standards, but not small.

Except that he was thin. Very thin, even, and as was currently so fashionable in the Wizarding modelling industry, if not yet so pronounced in the Muggle world, leant definitively more towards the waifish than the muscular end of the spectrum. Draco would never had considered Harry 'waifish' in the past, but in fitted jeans that only emphasised the lines of his legs, the absence of what had once been childish puppy fat in his cheeks, the way his jumper seemed to swim on his just a little, certainly made it seem that way.

The modelling industry could be brutal, and not just for photographers, though Draco had experienced more than his fair share of back-breaking hours, time spent editing and stylising shots that was ultimately rejected, and overall dissatisfaction when he couldn't achieve what he wanted just right.

For models, it was different. It was a world of regular workouts and starved meal plans. It was rejections not for their work but for how they looked, how they stood, how they carried themselves and for any and every perceived imperfection. It was manipulation – by agents, photographers, directors – and exposure in a way that Draco hadn't quite understood the full extent of before witnessing it himself.

It was what made him look at the way the casting director's hand lingered on Harry's shoulder and swallow back a rush of sceptical disgust. He wouldn't jump to conclusions, but he would have to be naïve to think such things didn't happen.

"Keep your eyes to yourself, Malfoy."

Flinching slightly, shaking himself from his thoughts, Draco snapped his gaze towards the voice above him. Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, an older man with a younger woman at his side stood across the table from him. They looked nothing alike but seemed like two peas in a pod for the way they both stared down their noses, eyes narrowed, and lips drawn downwards in disgust.

Draco blinked up at them, eyes hooded and expression carefully blank. "I'm sorry, can I help you?"

The woman tipped her pointed chin towards the dressing room where Harry and the director still stood smiling and chatting practically in the doorway. "Just because you're working with him doesn't give you the right to get familiar. Keep your distance."

Draco almost scoffed. It was ridiculous, really. The claim the Wizarding world had to Harry, as though he was a possession, an icon, an idol to be coveted and defended, was disgusting on a whole new level. Even if Draco had been less averse to the idea of Harry Potter – of working with him, befriending him, and anything beyond or less than that – he would have been disgusted. Just because Harry had saved them and their world, ridding magic of an evil taint that would otherwise have wrought even more destruction than it already had, didn't mean he owed anything to those he'd saved. If anything, Draco thought that rescue alleviated him of any supposed debt.

Straightening, absently collecting his prints from the table, Draco felt his lips thin. _Don't get angry, don't get angry, don't get… Why am I even considering getting angry?_ "It's a little hard to keep my distance as his photographer," he said coolly.

Both man and woman had no such restraint in masking their own derision. The woman glared, propping a hand on her hip, her overlong nails curling into claws as they did so, while the man smiled in a way that looked more like a snarl. "Exactly. You shouldn't have been given the job."

"Actually, I was chosen," Draco corrected. Which he had been, of a sort. By Pansy, yes, and there was a degree of nepotism that he preferred not to consider too closely, but Harry and Picard had accepted him. Picard seemed to almost approve of him nowadays.

"An error, clearly," the woman all but hissed.

"I beg your pardon?" Draco arched an eyebrow. "Are you saying that Harry made a mistake?"

"More than he was influenced," the man said. "He has a tendency to cling to lost cases that should otherwise be scrubbed away like a dirty stain. _Estellas_ should let him go before it drags him down with them."

Draco rolled his eyes. "For someone who considers him to be infallible, I'd have expected you to be more accepting of his decisions."

"Even the infallible can be led astray."

"I think you're misunderstanding what the word 'infallible' means."

"Are you mocking me?"

Draco raised his other eyebrow. The words that slipped from his lips – he shouldn't say them, but he couldn't help himself. "Oh, you can tell? I'd have thought the minute extent of your brain cells couldn't comprehend such a thing. It is, after all, a somewhat sophisticated way of thinking. I wouldn't expect you to be able to make such leaps in logic when you put a living human being upon a pedestal and all but worship him like a starving man would a leg of lamb, but –"

The man was upon him. The woman hissed a sharp, fierce retort, but it was the man that launched himself forwards. Somehow, he made his way across the table – over? Around? Draco wasn't sure which – and grabbed Draco by his collar. Draco's prints scattered. He nearly fell to the floor, but the man, bigger than himself, twisted his fist in Draco's shirt and all but hauled him off his feet. His other fist rose threateningly right beside Draco's cheek.

"You fucking scum," he growled, spittle spraying. "You think you're so high and mighty now that you've got this job? Just you wait; whatever protection you think you have – it'll be gone the second your assumed reign ends."

His fist twisted further, and Draco, on his toes, choked slightly as his airways were momentarily cut off. He grasped the man's wrist, blood abruptly pounding like a drum and all but deafeningly him to the woman cussing something similarly threatening as she too rounded the table.

Was he scared? A little. Draco would be a fool not to be, not after years of learning what happened if he wasn't. Too many black eyes, bloody noses, and bruised cheeks left a mark even after those bruises had faded.

Draco was scared, but certainly not enough to withhold a reply. "You clearly think I'm more intimidated than I am, then," he managed, breathless. "What are you going to do, punch me?"

He might have. The man might have done just that – except that even as his fist rose higher, his face twisting with fury and eyes swimming in it, a hand appeared and curled around that fist. "Whoa, hold on a second, Billy. What's going on?"

Even if Draco hadn't recognised the words as Harry's, he thought he would have known it was him. The way the fury, the hatred, the aggression, immediately vanished from the burly man like water swiped from a window could have it be no one else. Still, Draco was more than a little surprised when, with a compulsive step backwards, the man seemed to disregard Draco entirely. Draco nearly tumbled to the floor as his collar was abruptly released

"Harry," the man said, attention swinging towards where Harry had appeared at Draco's side. "This? Oh, ah – nothing. Nothing at all. Malfoy was just being a mouthy git, as ever."

"Really?" Harry said mildly, head tilting just slightly.

How he managed to appear so neutral, so unassuming, Draco didn't know. He would never have been able to manage anywhere near something so passive himself. But then, Harry seemed to have lost his ability to become properly angry somewhere over the years. He even managed the hint of a smile when he glanced towards Draco.

"What poor conduct, to pick a fight in the workplace," he said.

Hands compulsively fixing his shirt as though they didn't know what to do with themselves, Draco strove to grasp a hold of his own composure, grappling with rising anger that always flickered like a suppressed flame when he was harassed. He attempted – and likely failed – a returning smile. "Quite. I wouldn't have thought that _Syren_ would be the kind of place to play host to fisticuffs."

The man – Billy – visibly twitched, but Harry's smile widened, and that was the important thing. His fingers, still curled loosely around Billy's hand and somehow managing to stay its violent motion, tapped a finger gently on his knuckles. "Exactly. I'm sure Draco didn't mean any harm by saying whatever he said, Billy. It's pretty deplorable behaviour, breaking into a fight, and from my experience Draco's not really inclined to do that so much these days. I'm sure he would have backed off quickly enough."

Billy's face flushed slightly, and Draco couldn't help but feel a rush of satisfaction. Billy clearly wasn't as stupid as his tendency towards violence suggested he was; Harry wasn't being particularly subtle with his reprimand, but it wasn't exactly written in glowing letters and held aloft.

"We were just having a difference of opinions," Billy ground out, jaw clenched.

"Of course," Harry said easily. "On that note, actually, do you mind if I have a chat to you about something? It'll only take a second, I promise. If you have the time."

How readily Billy melted at his words. Why was that, exactly? That Harry smiled at him, and it was somehow a different smile to those that Draco had seen from him before? That he was Harry Potter, and Billy really did worship the ground he walked on? Or was it something else entirely, the same thing that kept not only Billy's attention suspended but also that of the woman who had ceased spitting like a cat and Draco himself?

Draco wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it worked. His hands still twitching at the hem of his shirt, he watched as Billy lowered his fist and Harry held onto it for just a moment longer before letting it go. Draco watched as Harry led the way to the door, Billy and his companion followed after him like dogs to heel. He watched and, breathing slowing, his heart still quivering, could only shake his head at the rapid turn of events.

"You alright, Malfoy?"

Glancing towards to his side, noticing for the first time the company of the casting director Harry had been talking to, Draco rubbed his throat where it still protested to his rough treatment. The director was frowning, arms folded across his chest as he watched Harry disappear through the doorway with the gorilla and stalking cat respectively trailing after him. He still stared when the doorway emptied, unblinking and attentive, as though awaiting their return.

 _That Billy – he in particular is one to watch out for in future_ , Draco thought, fingers massaging abused skin. Innocent until proven guilty was a stance Draco strongly supported, but he wasn't a fool. He wasn't so naïve as to lower his guard, and in the position he found himself in? It was indeed foolish not to view every narrow-eyed stare with suspicion.

"I'm fine," Draco said, his voice a little hoarse. "It's hardly unexpected."

"Mm."

The director didn't really care. Draco knew that. More than likely, the man was only being civil to Draco because Harry had made of show of raising a hand between Draco and a swinging fist. A hand that, despite being little enough protection, had effectively stayed the white-knuckled punch. If he was anything even vaguely reminiscent of Billy in his own adoration, the director wouldn't be so stupid as to act in an untoward fashion so quickly afterwards.

Disregarding the man, Draco dropped to his knees and began scooping up his prints. It was a good thing they were only untouched drafts; even if he could reprint them, he would be seething if he was required to. Copies weren't cheap.

But Draco wasn't seething. He wasn't even all that angry anymore, despite the momentary bout of rage that had risen in the abrupt dismissal of his fear. Glancing towards the empty doorway, Draco found himself straining his ears for any approaching feet. He thought that maybe, despite how ludicrous it might sound, he would be able to identify Harry's step.

Swallowing a little painfully, Draco dropped his gaze to the floor. Around him, the sound of voices murmuring in conversation through the walls, of models and stylists readying themselves next door and what sounded like another consultation of sorts beginning in the opposite room. But Draco hardly noticed. His fingers paused on the edge of one white-framed print, and he couldn't help but stare at the image of Harry staring back at him with his unwavering gaze.

He'd stood up for him. Before him. In defence of him. What exactly was Draco supposed to do after that? He didn't know, but just as had begun from the first moment he'd seen Harry's picture, he knew that something else, some other change, had clicked over within him like the hand of a clock, steadily approaching its peak.

* * *

 **"…** **make it sound so normal. I doubt I'd be the only person in the world who would have expected something a little more unusual of your school life."**

"I don't really know how it's supposed to sound. It's the only schooling experience I've ever had, after all."

 **"** **That's true. Although, despite the apparent normalcy you indicate, there are those few key incidents that certainly aren't typical for an average student."**

"Haha. Yeah, I guess you could say that."

 **"** **You said that your success in the confrontation with Quirinus Quirrell under his hypnotism was more a product of luck and chance than anything?"**

"Pretty much. It wasn't even really my own ma – ah, _skill_ that drew him out of it."

 **"** **Just as it wasn't your skillsin your second year when you confronted returning student Tom Riddle? You saved your friend Ginevra Weasely from a potentially devastating catastrophe."**

"It wasn't just me. Ron helped out a whole lot, and Professor Dumbledore's bird."

 **"** **Yes, you said that. How, pray tell, could a bird assist you?"**

"… You're really asking me to explain that?"

 **"** **If you would."**

"Well… I guess Fawkes just interrupted our confrontation at the right place and the right time."

 **"** **And what of your godfather. Sirius Black, yes? Breaking into the school to find you –"**

"Not me, as it happens. My father's old friend, Peter Pettigrew, was squatting on the grounds. Sirius had a bit of a vendetta against him."

 **"** **Peter Pettigrew was – was squatting? On school grounds?"**

"Yes. It's almost funny how long he got away with it when you think about it. You'd think the professors would have noticed."

 **"** **You would indeed… And yet you were, again, ultimately the one responsible for remedying the situation."**

"What do you mean by that, exactly?"

 **"** **Only that it seems you were made to handle a fair share of the issues that arose at your school, issues that should rightly have been dealt with by your teachers and the adults in charge. Rubeus Hagrid, for instance. As the groundskeeper, one would think, particularly in the case of Pettigrew, it would be his responsibility to –"**

"No."

 **"** **No?"**

"No. He shouldn't have been in charge of that."

 **"** **But you should have been?"**

"It wasn't meant to be my responsibility. It just happened that way."

 **"** **Just like it happened that you managed to resolve so many situations without the support of the teachers on hand?"**

"Yes."

 **"How so?"**

"I was lucky."

 **"** **Lucky?"**

"Yes."

 **"** **Do you perhaps drink liquid luck in your spare time, Harry?"**

"Only once."

 **"…** **I see."**

"Something wrong?"

 **"** **No, no. Not at all. Would you care to elaborate on that?"**

"Not really. It was just some schoolkid antics. I'm sure you're familiar with it. My friends and I just having fun. Hagrid too, actually. He's a good guy."

 **"** **Indeed. Speaking of your friends – how was your relationship with the other students at your school."**

"The other students being… my friends?"

 **"** **We'll explore your closer friends in a moment – trust me, I've got a whole segment just for them, to say nothing of your romantic relationships."**

"Looking forward to it."

 **"** **Yes, you sound it."**

"What gave me away?"

 **"** **Ha. Now, your classmates: aside from Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, were you particularly close to anyone else?"**

"Not really. I mean, the boys dormitory I was in with Neville, Dean, and Seamus – we were all friends, even if I was closest to Ron. They're all pretty good guys too."

 **"** **And the girls?"**

"I admittedly didn't have much to do with them other than Hermione. And Ginny."

 **"** **Oh, come now. I can hardly think of a teenage boy who wasn't making eyes at the girls. Are you that pure of heart, Harry?"**

"Maybe I was just looking in a different direction."

 **"…"**

"…"

 **"** **Is that… so?"**

"Come on, Pansy. You've surely heard the rumours."

 **"Is this your means of confirming them?"**

"Maybe. Maybe not. Is this your way of asking me to?"

 **"…** **Maybe. Maybe not. But I'll loop back to this. Don't think I won't."**

"Oh, I believe you."

 **"** **So, you were fairly tight with your dorm mates. What of the rest of your cohort?"**

"Well, I guess in fifth year, when Hermione, Ron, and I started up a club of sorts – yeah, that was probably the first time I really got a chance to meet most of the people outside of my dormitory."

 **"** **You were fairly withdrawn, then?"**

"Not withdrawn so much as – I mean, I guess I've never been one much for making a huge group of friends."

 **"** **You were friendless in your younger years? Before attending Hogwarts?"**

"Did I say that?"

 **"** **Not exactly."**

"Are you putting words in my mouth, then?"

 **"…** **You know, Harry, I think you're learning how to deflect me."**

"Thank you. I take that as a compliment."

 **"** **You should. Not many can manage it."**

"I can believe that."

 **"** **Alright, then. What of your less than friendly acquaintances?"**

"You mean schoolyard rivals?"

 **"If you'd like."**

"Like yourself?"

 **"** **I'm not naming names."**

"Of course not. Neither am I."

 **"** **Do you feel you harbour any lingering resentful? It's common knowledge that many of your old 'rivals' are those who joined the less than savoury clubs at the school, and that they're still feeling the negative effects of their actions."**

"Those clubs have since been gutted, or so I've heard."

 **"** **They have. Yes, they have."**

"So why should it be relevant anymore?"

 **"** **The effects do still linger, even years later. Some would consider that you're entitled to resenting those who effectively made your schooling experience, to put it bluntly, living hell."**

"I thought we'd established that it was practically boring for how normal it was."

 **"** **You mean you conveyed it as being normal."**

"Same thing."

 **"** **Not really. But would you care to expand upon that?"**

"If you'd like. I suppose I don't hold grudges – or at least not any more. What some of those kids did was wrong. Really wrong, and I hope that they don't still think there's any way to look at it with any positivity. But people seem to overlook the fact that most of the kids who were involved in school were honestly just kids. How can you blame them for what they did when they were just being influenced by their parents, or by the people their parents taught them to trust?"

 **"…** **How indeed."**

"I think that it would be both blind and stupid of me to blame them for everything they did. I mean, I wasn't particularly close to any of the kids who got involved – we just weren't in the same social circles and, as you said, I was rivals of a sort with most of them – but that doesn't mean I hated them. I never hated them. I don't think it's right to hold them accountable for what they did, and even less so when most of them didn't actually do half of what they're being accused of."

 **"** **Like…?**

"Like hurting people. Stories seem to have gotten a little bit muddled along the way. Just because the cult they were dragged into was responsible for such acts of violence doesn't mean that everyone caught up in it participated. It doesn't mean that they all approved, either."

 **"** **That's a very extreme opinion you've stating, Harry. One that I don't think many would agree with."**

"Well, it was an extreme situation. And, if nothing else, I hope that my saying so will convince people to look at those they're judging from a bit of a different angle."

 **"** **I see."**

"Yeah."

 **"** **And your words wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm the one interviewing you?"**

"No. Why would you think that? I don't have any hesitation in admitting that I think you were a right bitch in school, Pansy."

 **"** **Haha. I see. That's heartening to hear. Now, before we drift too far from the central topic –"**

"Central topic?"

 **"These interviews are supposed to be of** ** _your_** **history, Harry. Let's not forget that."**

"Right. How silly of me."

 **"** **Silly. Yes. Now, returning to where we left off: your fourth year was a great point of excitement, wasn't it?"**

"I guess you could call it that."

 **"** **Not in your opinion?"**

"Well, when you nearly get blasted to pieces in your first round of a tournament, it sort of sets you up for failure."

 **"** **Yes, I can understand how that might be somewhat discouraging. But interschool sports competitions are always fierce, and the Dragons have always been noteworthy for their overwhelming strength in football, so it's only to be expected that…"**

* * *

Draco packed up slowly that evening. So slowly that he was one of the last to leave the conjoined rooms that sat adjacent to the studio he'd spent most of the day in. The clock on the wall ticked steadily closer to six o'clock, but Draco hardly noticed. Just as he barely noticed his hands moving as he packed away the last of his equipment.

The sounds of chaos that had flooded the hallway just outside the studio all day had died to near-silence. Murmurs of conversation still interrupted Draco's isolation, but it was negligible. It left Draco with his thoughts, whirling in a mess that had been afflicting him for hours.

Why?

How?

What would possess him to say something like that?

The same thoughts, turning around and around and tumbling over one another, and Draco couldn't answer them. Just as he hadn't been able to conjure an answer as to just what had possessed Harry to stand between him and Billy that morning. Was it his hero complex? Draco had long suspected Harry possessed such an affliction, but really? A hero complex?

It didn't fit. Ultimately, it didn't fit what Draco had been gradually deciding was the default setting of the current Harry Potter. Harry at twenty-one was very different to how he'd been at seventeen, or fourteen, or even eleven, when he was still bright-eyed and naïve. This Harry was mellow and calm. He was a piece of driftwood bobbing down a roaring river, tied by an instructional string to a boat that Picard drove with a deft hand. He let things happen, didn't object, and he didn't get angry.

Harry Potter had lost his anger, and with it, Draco had assumed he'd lost his voice. He'd assumed that, like so many models he'd come across, he had retreated into being a voiceless, obliging doll before the camera, malleable and obedient, with little tendency towards more active responses when away from the limelight, too. From what Draco had seen, he'd appeared to be just that.

Apparently, he was wrong. Harry wasn't silent. He just chose the moments he spoke, and when he did, it wasn't in a fit of rage but with calculated deliberation.

 _How can you blame them for what they did…?_

Draco swallowed thickly. He knew he was to blame for what had happened in the wat. He knew he'd done wrong. If he was to do his time again, he even knew that he'd do the same thing all again. What else was he supposed to do? It wasn't like he had a choice in the matter. It wasn't like he could step out of the situation whenever he pleased. It wasn't possible to simple shrug, decide he didn't like what the Dark Lord demanded of him, and say no.

Draco was a coward. He knew he'd been a coward, and that he still was. But who out of everyone he knew, who besides Harry, and Granger, and Weasley, and their chosen posse, weren't?

 _How can you blame them for what they did when they were just being influenced…?_

Draco squeezed his eyes closed against the recurring influx of remembered words. His fingers tightened upon his camera – his personal camera, that he'd brought out to the shoot even knowing he wouldn't use it, just as he'd made a habit of doing for years. It was a comforting weight in his hands. Familiar.

He knew he'd had autonomy, at least to a degree. Draco knew that he should have known better, and a part of him had. Yet even in the face of the violence, the fear, and what had progressed to death and destruction so quickly and uncontrollably, Draco couldn't turn away. There was a part of him, even as he saw his classmates being shot down by Death Eaters, that whispered it was right. That it was how it was supposed to happen. That the Dark Lord had to win.

It was wrong, and yet it had felt right _._ Even nauseating retrospect couldn't erase that fact.

 _That doesn't mean I hated them. I never hated them._

Draco wasn't sure if that part had been a lie. He didn't know if it was lip-service on Harry's part or if he truly meant it. Draco knew that they had a less than polished past to put it in the mildest of terms, and even if he acknowledged that he'd been – and likely still was, as Pansy called it, 'a little bit obsessed' with Harry – he knew they hadn't been friends. He knew he'd even hated Harry a little.

But now was different. Now, it had changed. Now, it mattered that Harry didn't hate him, and could look at him without glaring, and spoke to him –

"See you tomorrow, Draco."

Draco snapped his eyes open, glancing towards the dressing room. Harry was standing just inside the doorway into the hallway, Von ahead of him and already disappearing. Draco swallowed with difficulty once more, because how could he not? How could he not stare and be just a little enchanted by the Harry that wasn't quite the model he presented himself as before the camera but wasn't the boy of their shared past, either?

Maybe it was the casual dress, the return of his oversized jumper and plain jeans to replace what he'd been dressed in for the formalities of most of the day. Maybe it was the glasses. Or maybe it was that, when Harry looked at him, Draco felt as though he was actually being seen as himself, and there really was no hatred in his eyes. He just looked, and saw, and accepted.

Without intention, Draco raised his camera. His fingers flicked it on without deliberate intention. Just as detachedly, in a motion slow enough to halt should objection arise, he raised it to his eye and snapped a picture. It wasn't the captured image of the model with nearly perfect lines and nearly perfect make-up that he saw through his viewfinder. It was just Harry.

When he lowered it, he met Harry's gaze silently. Whether Harry understood the silent question he asked or simply didn't care, he only smiled slightly in reply, a little confused but otherwise accepting. With only a final nod of his head, he turned and disappeared through the doorway, leaving Draco to cradle the captured image in the depths of camera.

He rose after that. He made his way through the nearly silent hallways, satchel slung over his shoulder and head down as he'd learnt was the easiest way to pass unnoticed. When he stepped into the elevator, it wasn't until the doors slid closed that he realised Billy and his companion stood at the back as the sole other occupants.

None of them spoke. None of them moved. The woman wasn't hissing anymore, and Billy didn't raise his fist again. Draco stared fixedly at the closed doors, nowhere near as concerned as he should be, for he didn't care. There were more important things to think about. More fascinating things to occupy his mind.

That was, until the doors slid open a floor before his own and the pair strode past him to leave. When the woman bumped his shoulder he glanced up, but it was only to see the back of her head and Billy's half-turned face as he glanced back at him, striding away.

"You're lucky he likes you, Malfoy," Billy said, so low and so fast that Draco almost missed it. When the elevators slid closed once more, leaving Draco staring at only his own reflection on the polished metal, he was stunned into adding just one more comment to the myriad of confusing echoes rebounding off the inside of his skull. They were still jumbled, still chaotic, when he forsook the bus ride hope and Apparated at the earliest chance he could get after stepping from _Syren_ 's head building.

As it turned out, it wasn't the worst day he could have had. It hadn't even turned out all that bad, despite its beginning, because… because the interview had gone well. The shots had turned out well, too. And –

And Harry had said he didn't hate Draco. That he may have disliked him, but not anymore. It was something so irrelevant, so trivial, even, but to Draco it meant something. That, and that he'd spoken for him.

 _Don't get ahead of yourself_ , Draco thought, grappling with the thought of Harry in a favourable light that he really shouldn't consider. He wasn't that kind of photographer. He wouldn't let himself be. _Just because he sticks up for you as no one else in the bloody industry does doesn't mean anything. It… it doesn't._

Not even Draco believed his own thoughts. He doubted he would have been particularly convincing to anyone if they asked how he felt about Harry's defensiveness. Draco could defend himself, had clawed his way into becoming a photographer in a hateful world, and he could stand on his own two feet. But he didn't think he could convincingly deny that Harry standing up for him – it really meant something. It meant something bigger than Draco knew what to make of.

* * *

A/N: I am so sorry. Honestly, I'm even frustrated with myself for how much of a slow burn this is. I didn't even realise at the time of writing it!  
Thank you to the lovely readers sticking with me nonetheless. I hope you're still enjoying the story!


	9. Chapter 9

WARNING: this chapter contains references and allusions to some pretty heavy themes. If you have any chance of being triggered by discussions of eating disorders/habits or body dysphorphia, please read carefully.

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"Blimey…"

Pausing in step, Harry glanced towards where Ron had all but stumbled to a halt on the curb. He was staring up at the towering building before him with eyes wide and freckles stark upon his abrupt paleness. Turning, Harry drew his own gaze similarly upwards.

 _I suppose it might be a bit confronting for someone who's never seen it before._

 _Syren_ headquarters was tall. And big. A tall, big building, with a modern façade more window than wall, and a grand entrance of double revolving doors at the top of wide, white steps. Even to the casual passer-by it would have stood out. It breathed grandeur and expense more profoundly than a fistful of galleons. Harry had always found it a little too extravagant, really.

"If you're not comfortable with all of this, I can see if it's possible for you to give the shoot a miss," Harry said.

"Are you kidding? With how much we've been offered to stand in for a single day?"

Harry glanced sidelong at Ginny where she stepped up to his shoulder. Despite her offhanded words and the slight bubble of laugher buried beneath them, she too was transfixed by the towering _Syren_ building. Ginny wasn't one typically intimidated, and she'd had experience with the press before, so he supposed her sudden bout of nervousness must be unfamiliar and all but unprecedented. If not for her expression, the fact that she'd actually attempted to dress conservatively in a modest blouse and jeans was indication enough. She was almost as pale as Ron, and that was saying something.

In fact, the only one who didn't appear nervous was Hermione. She considered _Syren_ with a shrewd gaze, lips slightly pursed and the barest hint of a frown upon her brow. Harry could almost hear the thoughts dribbling through her mind: _That the day would come where I'd be standing for a photoshoot in a fashion magazine, of all places…_

Hermione had danced the dance and posed just so for a camera on a number of occasions. She was a figurehead in her NGO, and her spokesperson abilities, coupled with her enthusiasm, made her the perfect person to sit for interviews and photographs. But fashion? God no. There were some things that Hermione would never readily bow her head to.

Harry was almost surprised that she'd agreed to come that day. And upon _Syren_ – and Draco's – request, at that. For it had been a request; Ron himself had commented to that very fact.

"He didn't just demand that we come along," Ron had said over the phone days before when he'd first been formally approached with the offer. "I mean, he actually asked. And offered money. But – like, he actually asked."

Harry wasn't so surprised. Not anymore.

"It'll probably only take until lunch time for your part," Harry said to his friends, just as he had several times that morning already. "I promise, I won't use up your whole day."

"You don't have to be so apologetic, Harry," Hermione said, flashing him a smile that momentarily cleared her scepticism. "We chose to come, you know."

"Yeah," Ginny said, shaking herself from her staring. "Besides, it'll be interesting to actually see you at work for once. The man behind the photograph and all that." She bumped his shoulder with her own, nervousness dissipating into her usual toothy grin. "My team will be so jealous."

"Why's that?"

There was a beat of silence between them, broken only by the sounds of traffic, passing pedestrians, and the hissing sigh of a bus as it paused at a stop half a street away. Then Ginny leant around Harry to roll her eyes at Hermione. "The sad thing is that he's actually one hundred percent serious."

Hermione's smile widened fondly. Hooking her arm through Harry's as she only did when her 'big sister habits' kicked into gear, she patted his hand. "And we love you for it, Harry."

"Why do I get the impression you're patronising me?"

"Probably 'cause they are," Ron muttered. "I wouldn't take it personal or anything."

"I don't," Harry said easily, and he didn't really. He knew that, regardless of how much his friends loved him, they were still and likely always would be a little derisive of his career. Many people who hadn't any direct experience with the world of modelling looked down their noses, even as they admired the finished piece. Glamour, glory, and pampering was the general consensus when most considered the life of a model. Harry was never quite able to break it to them properly that the reality was quite different.

"Come on, then," Ginny said, and in a motion that was far less familiar than Hermione's arm-link, locked her own through Harry's to fit elbow into elbow. "Let's see your world, Harry."

She all but dragged both he and Hermione through the double doors, and Harry had to toss a glance over his shoulder just to be sure that Ron kept up. He did, after a beat; shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets, and hunching his shoulders, Ron trailed after them.

The foyer was open and echoing with the sound of heeled shoes, hurrying feet, and general haste as it always was. More so than Harry was used to when he entered, for he'd arrived later that day in the company of his friends than he usually did. Crossing towards the double-seated receptionist's desk, he extracted his arm from Ginny's to wave a hand at the man and woman seated behind.

"Hi, Janice. Hey, Peter."

Janice paused in whatever conversation she was sharing with Peter and they both glanced towards him. Professional openness and clinical smiles faded immediately into sincerity from the both of them.

"Good morning, Harry," Janice said as Peter raised a hand in greeting. Her eyes darted briefly towards Harry's friends and her smile widened. "Is it that day already? We were sent a missive that your group shoot was coming up, but…"

"A missive?" Ron muttered behind them.

"Time flies when you're having fun," Peter said with a chuckle. "Before you know it we'll be wishing you farewell, Harry."

"Not too soon," Harry said. "Promise."

"Good to hear."

Janice handed him a clipboard of pristine paper already marked with lines of names and signatures despite the relative earliness of the morning. "I'll just get you all to sign in. Name, date of birth, purpose for your visit, and signature."

"That's a little excessive, isn't it?" Ginny asked, already reaching for the offered pen.

Janice's smile was a little tighter this time, but it was still a smile. "Just standard procedure."

"Of course," Hermione said with a nod. "You never know what kind of weirdos might try and slip through the doors, especially in this industry."

Janice and Peter nodded their immediate agreement, but Harry couldn't help eyeing Hermione sidelong with a touch of surprise. He wouldn't have expected her understanding, at least in this instance. But then, she did have experience, if not directly with modelling, so maybe it shouldn't have been so unexpected.

They exchanged another handful of greetings, of "how're you today?" and "are you on all week?" before Harry led his friends onwards. They were climbing into the elevator when Ginny leant into him, shoulders bumping again, and muttered, "Alright, Mr. Friends-With-Everyone. What was that about?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

The elevator was empty but for their quartet, a benefit of coming in at after eight o'clock, but she still kept her voice down as she rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. They were totally making eyes at you."

"Who? Janice and Peter?"

"Yeah. Both of them. They were, weren't they Hermione?"

"They kind of were," Ron muttered instead of Hermione, while Hermione only shrugged.

Harry frowned. "I don't think so. They're just really friendly."

Ginny rolled her eyes again. "Oh, I'm sure. I'm totally sure they smile like the sun's been given to them whenever anyone –"

"Okay, they didn't do that."

"They did. You just weren't looking at them the right way. Right, Hermione?"

"They kind of were," Ron said again, once more speaking for Hermione.

Harry turned his frown upon him where he stood still hunched and very distinctly awkward in the back corner of the elevator, but he let it slide. He supposed it was all but expected for it to be Target Harry Day given the circumstances. Instead, he turned back to Ginny as the elevator pinged on a floor not their own. "You're weirdly vocal about my love life these days, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Oh, I know," Ginny said proudly. "I make sure of I am."

"Thought you did," Harry muttered, before he was deflected from his frowning by the entrance of alighting passengers. One such passenger immediately planted himself before him with a wide grin.

"Morning, bub," Von said, smiling with a flash of white teeth and blatant delighted. He barely turned that smile upon Harry's friends but to nod in greeting before grinning back at Harry. "So, guess where I've just heard down in the Stylist's Den? You'll never guess, so I'll tell you."

Harry shook his head, smiling as Von was shunted further into the elevator by more passengers and fell to effectively gushing about what was, apparently, a scandal of sorts regarding "Christine Walker, that bitch". It was amusing to simply watch him; for a man so tall, so broad, so imposing and hard-faced much of the time, his deterioration into schoolboy gossip had been astounding the first time Harry had beheld it. It was as though he were two different people in one.

Which wasn't as unusual in the industry Harry found himself as he considered it otherwise would be. Or should be. Everyone seemed to wear a mask of sorts – that for work, and that which was tucked sadly beneath.

Von was still all but gushing – much to Ginny's amusement, Hermione's visible exasperation, and Ron's ogling – when the elevator pinged to eject them onto their floor. Harry led the way out, Von at his side, and paused alongside the wall of the bustling corridor to gather his slowly, almost hesitantly following friends.

And Von gushed. Still.

"… would think she was queen of the department to hear her talk," he was saying, rolling his eyes. "It was so good to see. She needs a right slap to the face to set her nose back into place."

"Oh, I'll bet," Harry said, though Von barely seemed to hear him.

"And who better to do it than Renee? She's incredible, Harry. Hell, if I was an apprentice still, I'd want to be training under her."

"That good, is she?" Harry spared a glance for an outburst down the hallway cluttered with hastening bodies. "She's a freelancer, right?"

"Too right. Which means Christine hasn't got a leg to stand on."

"You mean she can't dob on her to anyone higher up?"

"Exactly." Von sighed, teeth flashing almost blindingly for the width of his smile. "I've never been so happy in my life. She hasn't even got any talent; it's no secret that she only got a foot in at _Syren_ because she threw a literal leg over one too many laps."

"Charming."

"But true. Serves her right. Honestly, did you see her spread last issue? Who decided it was alright to let her loose with frills _and_ florals? It's an abomination."

Harry only nodded as Von dove into a breakdown of just everything he deemed wrong with Christine Walker's stylistic choices. He'd heard it all before and had to swallow a smirk as Von's satisfaction blossomed like the florals he so despised. Glancing sidelong to where Ginny, Hermione, and Ron clustered, he mouthed a brief "one second", before turning his attention back to Von.

"… has way too much emphasis upon clichés – really, florals in spring? That's original – that I can't believe even she can't see it –"

"Von," Harry interrupted, raising a hand to snap his fingers for attention. "It's nearly nine."

"- must be half blind by the time she – what?" Von ground to a halt. Then he snapped to attention and immediately the gushing, gossiping man he'd been disappeared. "Oh, shit. Right. Sorry about that, bub. Right, I'll head into the dressing room then and rustle up these girls and boys so we can get this show on the road in a timely manner."

Turning towards Harry's friends, each of who looked in varying degrees of discomfort and fascination, he raised a hand to Harry in farewell. "Head on down after you've had a bit of a poke around – I'm assuming you're taking them around, Harry? Great. Don't get snapped up by anyone who'll waylay you further, got it?"

Then Von was turning and striding down the hallway, weaving between workers with long steps and the fluidity of a fish darting through its school. Harry saw him turn into the distant door of Studio Eleven barely seconds later. With a small shake of his head, he turned back to his friends.

They were all staring at him. There was such a wealth of expression in each of them, consideration as Harry had never seen before, that he didn't quite know what to say. Instead of explaining – he wasn't quite sure why, but explaining felt like the right thing to do – he tipped his head down the hallway. "That's Von. I've mentioned Von, right?"

"Right," Ron said slowly, almost warily. He took a skittering step further from the elevator when it pinged open again and spewed forth even more hastening men and women. The rest of them scooted to the wall accordingly.

"I remember you telling us about him," Hermione said, frowning slightly as she stared in the direction Von had disappeared. "He's not what I expected for a bodyguard."

"You're overlooking that he's also a stylist and makeup artist," Harry said.

"I think he's awesome," Ginny said, and in an instant, whatever reservations she'd seemed to hold visibly evaporated. She beamed at Harry. "Anyone who can so quickly slap 'The Bitch' tag onto someone's name like that is a trooper in my opinion. Yeah, I like him."

"He's got a history with Christine," Harry explained.

"No shit."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time he's badmouthed another stylist just because they got a job over him…"

"A job?" Hermione asked, tipping her head curiously back to Harry. "I thought he was your stylist and bodyguard?"

"Not just mine," Harry said, though it wasn't entirely true. Von had been culling other jobs and offers increasingly over the years. He was in Harry's company exclusively these days, and spent most of his time with Harry himself. "But even if he wasn't, I think he's too competitive not to care."

"Yep, I definitely like him," Ginny said with a short nod. "He's going to be doing – what, hair and makeup?"

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, while Hermione only sighed resignedly.

Harry winced slightly. He couldn't help it; his friends just seemed so reluctant. "If you don't want to do the shoot then that's really fine. I can pull some strings –"

"Nope," Ginny interrupted him. "No way, Harry. We're your friends, and this is important to you."

"Well, not specifically to me."

"The world, then," Hermione said. "We're a part of your story, so why shouldn't we make a show?"

"And a tell," Ron muttered. "Did you know I got a call from Parkinson last week saying she was planning on putting forward for individual interviews with each of us, too?"

"I got that call as well," Ginny said, pulling a face.

"Me too," Hermione murmured. "I said I'd do it."

"What?" Ron and Ginny squawked in synchrony.

"Why not? It's not like there's anything wrong with it. And besides, it's helping Harry. And his cause, for that matter. You know it takes more than just one person to start a movement, and trying to change the opinion of everyone in the Wizarding world about the victims of war on the other side of the war-front is…"

Hermione kept talking, but Harry was momentarily distracted. Not by Fiona, who nodded and smiled at him as she passed and ducked into the room nearest the elevator. Not by Paul, who muttered a distracted "morning" before stepping onto the returned elevator. It was that, through the midst of scurrying workers, he saw Draco striding towards him.

Or not towards Harry, but in their direction. His head was down, his focus upon a stack of papers in his hands, and a frown touched his brow and thinned his lips. The way he wove through passers-by was different to Von's manner; while Von's step was a dance, Draco seemed to actively duck and dodge out of the way with the kind of instinctive twists and turns of one long practiced in doing so. It was like he didn't expect anyone to get out of _his_ way so made do himself.

Which, to be fair, they likely wouldn't. Harry had always been aware of the Death Eater prejudice, whether warranted or not, but he'd witnessed more of it while working with Draco and Pansy than he'd wanted to see. Ever.

Glancing briefly towards his friends as Hermione still spoke in what seemed to be an effort of persuasion, Harry edged away from them before starting towards Draco and meeting him halfway. Draco almost reflexively stepped around him, which simultaneously saddened and marvelled Harry. Draco would have never done that when they were kids, and even if they had changed…

"Good morning," he said with a smile.

Draco glanced up at him, blinked blankly for a moment, then drew his gaze over Harry's shoulder towards his friends. "You brought them?"

Harry cocked his head. "Wasn't I supposed to?"

Draco nodded slowly, absently hitching the sling of his camera higher onto his shoulder. He didn't need to carry it, and he didn't use it most days, or so Harry had seen, but it seemed almost an extra limb to him. Far be it from an unwanted career path, Draco really did seem passionate about his work.

"I suppose it's simpler for everyone that they come in with you than separately," he said without a hint of derision. "Someone might get lost."

"It happens," Harry said, shrugging.

"Of course it does," Draco said. " _Syren's_ a bloody maze." Then he paused, and his gaze trained just a little more sharply upon Harry. A beat or two passed, Harry raised an eyebrow in question, and then Draco unslung his camera, flicked it to life, and raised it to his eye. In the middle of the hallway, as though there was no one else about, he snapped a picture of Harry.

No comment. No exchange. No words even followed pertaining to the act. A moment later and Draco was hooking the strap of his camera back around his shoulder. "If you could be in makeup by nine, I'd like to get started by ten. It shouldn't take too long to prep; a subdued and natural impression should be pretty quick."

Then he was stepping around Harry and strode down the adjacent corridor, head tucking and automatically returning to his dodging act once more. Harry stared after him for a moment. It was almost disconcerting how easily Draco accepted that he was shunned. There was pride in the way Draco held himself, in his work ethic, and his self-conduct, but there was also something like subservience. It was somehow saddening.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?"

Startling, Harry turned towards where Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had appeared behind him. They were each staring after Draco as well, though at Ron's words, slowly retrained their back on Harry.

"I told you he's our photographer," Harry said. He was sure he had. Ron had spluttered and moaned enough about it that he couldn't forget.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Ron said. His eyebrows climbed his forehead, eyes widening pointedly. "What was that?"

"'That' being…?"

"Does Mal – _Draco_ make a habit of taking your picture out of the studio?" Hermione asked from his side, correcting herself as she'd taken to doing of late. She was frowning slightly. "Why does he do that?"

Harry shrugged as Draco finally disappeared around the distant corner. He hadn't asked why Draco had taken to randomly snapping shots over the past few days, and for all he knew, it could be for a number of reason. To sell in future to the highest bidder, for planning of the next shoots in the interview series, simply to test out his camera – whichever reason, it wasn't like Harry really minded. If it suited Draco to take them, if he wanted to, and so long as Harry knew when it was happening, he could have at it.

"I don't know," he said. "It's just something he's started doing lately."

"It's clearly to add to his secret stash of material," Ginny whispered overloud, leaning towards Ron. She snickered as Ron shoved her face away from him, scowling.

Harry could only shake his head and share a faintly exasperated glance with Hermione. It was all just a little bit of fun, but Harry was sure he wasn't the only one to notice that Ginny only persisted with her suggestiveness pertaining to Draco in Ron's company. She was filling her role as the annoyingly little sister to a T.

"We've got to head into hair and makeup, if that's okay," he said, deliberately diverting the conversation. "It'll only take about an hour, and Von will likely already have your outfits ready, so…"

That got their attention. Ginny immediately straightened, while Hermione only sighed heavily, the slightly pained expression that touched her face whenever mention of makeup was made welling once more. Ron's brief return of colour faded away to paleness and stark freckles once more.

"Blimey," he said for what must have been the hundredth time since Harry had picked him up that morning. "To think that I'm actually in at a modelling shoot and getting all gussied up…" He shook his head, swallowing audibly. When he shook his head for a second time a moment later, he seemed like a dog ridding its ears of water. "Alright then, Harry. Lead on."

Glancing between each of his friends in turn, Harry nodded slowly. Only Ginny seemed particularly excited, but then, she was enthusiastic for just about anything these days. Harry wouldn't put it past either Ron or Hermione – though especially Ron – making a break for the exit as soon as he took his eyes off them. He couldn't even blame them; he didn't think he'd ever seen a better illustration of 'a fish out of water' than he did in Ron at that moment.

But none of them ran. If anything, Ron took a deep breath as though to steel himself, and Hermione shuffled half a step towards Harry. With a grateful smile to each of them, he turned and led them down the hallway.

It was supposed to be natural. Casual. Friendly, and easy, and shot as though taken in the midst of idle companionability. To Harry, it almost was. It was the most casual photoshoot he thought he'd ever had.

He knew he was likely the only one to think so, though, and it wasn't just because of his friends' words.

* * *

"Blimey," Ron said again as soon as they were shunted from the dressing rooms. "You do that every day, Harry? You actually – you mean you actually –?"

"Well, not every day," Harry said.

"How are clothes that are supposed to look so comfortable so completely not?" Hermione asked mid-shot as she struggled to rearranged herself in her 'at-ease' seat upon the floor.

Harry could only shrug. He was used to it, and all but expected discomfort these days.

"This is so awkward," Ginny muttered as she leant against him, speaking from the corner of her mouth and barely moving her lips. "Seriously."

"You get your photo taken all the time," Harry said, slinging his arm around her shoulders affectionately. Comfortably. Easily.

"Yeah, on a broom. Or before the press, when I don't know what direction the camera flashes are coming from. This is different."

Harry's friends clearly weren't comfortable. Not with the prep, the clothes, or the posing. Harry felt the now familiar weight of guilt for that, and he found himself murmuring apologies for their ears alone throughout.

But they didn't mind. Or they said they didn't, and Harry might have even believed them.

"Mate, calm down," Ron said. "If I really didn't want to do it, you bet your arse I wouldn't have."

"It's interesting to actually get a look into what you do," Hermione said, as always, absorbing every aspect of the studio, the camera setup, the pair crewman that were all that accompanied their photographer. "I never really get to see much of what goes on even when I sit for them myself, and modelling is definitely a different scene."

"Are you kidding me?" Ginny said as she slung her arm around Harry in return. "I'm having a blast. This is so weird, but kind of fun too, you know?"

Harry wasn't sure if he did know. He wasn't sure if he ever so much had 'fun' on his shoots. It was his job, what was expected of him, and he'd grown content enough with his circumstances and what it afforded him. He knew he wasn't model material, but the fame and limelight that had clung to him since the war seemed to overwhelm whatever he lacked. It had flooded past it to the degree that even Muggles considered him as the aptly named 'rising star' of _Estallas en Ascenso._

But fun? Harry wasn't sure if he'd ever called it fun.

It was something very close, however, when he positioned himself as requested in a loose cluster with his friends on the floor, 'chatting' in an 'action' shot in which Hermione's lips were too pursed and Ron looked slightly constipated. It was close when he accepted Ron's elbow propped atop his shoulder for their paired shot, and Hermione's comfortably linked arm, and Ginny's slouching lean.

It was closer still when Draco commented blandly upon Ron's skewed expressions and Ron grumbled indignantly, "It's 'cause it's weird just laughing at nothing."

"Oh, come on, Ron," Ginny said before Draco could reply. "You laugh at practically nothing all the time."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You don't have to laugh," Hermione said. "Just smile."

"Even smiling feels weird, though."

"Should I tickle you?" Ginny asked, wriggling her fingers at him.

Ron didn't get a chance to answer before she was upon him. Harry only just leant out of their way in time for Ginny to attack him, and the studio was abruptly echoing with Ron's bellows of "stop!", Ginny's maddened cackles, and Hermione's snickers that she couldn't quite hide behind a raised hand.

Harry found himself smiling, too. Actually smiling, rather than the deliberate version that he wore so much more often. He shook his head and, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, glanced towards Draco.

It was just in time to see Draco's eyes rolled to the ceiling, his lips murmuring inaudibly as though in a plea to the heavens, before he dropped his attention back to the camera before him. Behind him, the two crewmen were muttering between themselves, shaking their heads slightly, but Harry barely noticed them. Not when Draco flickered his gaze up to meet his own and just slightly raised an eyebrow.

It was as though Draco stood apart from his supposed helpers that Harry had seen over the past weeks didn't help all that much at all. As apart from them as Harry knew he'd become from his friends, made all the more apparent for their continued antics as Ginny jabbed at Ron, Ron swatted her out of the way, and Hermione looped an arm around Ginny's waist as though to restrain her from her attack, though the looseness of her grasp suggested the deliberate ineffectiveness of such a gesture.

Harry was apart. And so was Draco. And yet, as far as Harry could tell, while it was a little isolation, that separation wasn't entirely bad. Not really. That as much as anything widened Harry's smile as he turned his gaze back to his friends.

The photoshoot – was it fun? Maybe not quite, but it was certainly very close.

* * *

"My face. Is my face still intact?"

"Why wouldn't it be intact, Ronald?"

"It feels scrubbed down to the bone. I think I can feel my muscles exposed."

"Are you not cleaning yours off, Ginny?"

"Are you kidding? I look gorgeous all glammed up, and didn't even have to do the legwork myself. I'm never washing my face again."

Harry smiled to himself as he looped his scarf around his neck. It wasn't really cold outside, and definitely not at midday, but it was worth the extra layers rather than risking discomfort from a sudden chill. Besides, it helped to wear a scarf, and a hat, and his glasses, if he hoped to remain incognito. He listened absently to his friends behind him as they gloried in the liberty endowed by being changed and wiped down of makeup – or not as the case may be. Ginny really was keeping hers, it seemed.

It was only a half day of a photoshoot. Just a half, and leaving at such an hour felt more than a little strange. Harry could still hear the reverberations of noise as stylists and makeup artists, models and photographers and directors, busied themselves with work or hastened towards their own lunches. He glanced sidelong to a pair of two such departing workers expressed their relief and fervent need for coffee when they passed through the door from the dressing room.

"Are you ready to go, Harry?"

Turning, Harry smiled at Hermione's abrupt appearance at his shoulder. Her cheeks were still a little red from where she'd scrubbed them herself in the bathroom rather than using the products that the makeup artists were more than willing to offer her.

"Sure," he said. "Did you have anywhere in mind?"

"You're the one who's been working here for – what, two weeks?" Ron asked, shrugging into his own coat and wandering across the narrow breadth of the dressing room to Hermione's side. "What's good?"

"Your definition of good and mine are kind of different things," Harry said.

Ginny popped up at Hermione's other side as though Apparated. "Okay, then what places sell both salad and actual, real food?"

Harry chuckled as his friends broke into simultaneous contributions of "I feel like chips," and "something filling but not too heavy". "Okay, okay. I've got it." Waving at them vaguely, he led the way into the hallway with their chatter following after him. Only to pause in step with a peripheral glance in the direction of the conjoined room.

Harry pursed his lips. He plucked absently at his scarf. Then he muttered a brief "one sec," crossed towards the room that was all but unanimously accepted as the photographer's station.

Draco was leaning over a single print, frowning as he so often did when regarding his work, and for a moment didn't seem to realise Harry approached him. When Harry paused alongside him, however, dropping his hand lightly onto the table, Draco glanced upwards, frown clearing into blankness.

"Hey," Harry said with a small smile.

"Hello," Draco replied slowly and maybe a little warily.

Harry gestured over his shoulder. "We're going to head out for lunch. Did you want to come?"

Draco's eyes darted over Harry's shoulder. A frown flickered briefly into re-existence forked when he caught sight of Harry's friends before his attention redirected back onto Harry. "You want me to have lunch with you all?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Because I'm me."

Harry nodded. "Yes, you are."

"And they're… Weasley. And Weasley. And Granger."

"I know."

Draco blinked hooded eyes. His expression was so impassive it was an expression in itself. "Why?"

Harry shrugged. "Why not? And if you say anything about old school rivalries, I'm going to have to hex you."

"In the middle of _Syren_ , Harry?" Draco murmured, the corners of his lips quivering ever so slightly. "Amidst all these Muggles? How daring of you."

"Daring is my middle name," Harry said, with an easy shrug.

Draco snorted. It was so unexpected that Harry didn't realise at first that it was a laugh. He allowed himself to smile just a little wider as Draco actually smiled himself. "You know, maybe once, but I don't think so anymore."

"Probably not," Harry admitted. "So, will you come?"

"I'm working," Draco said, gesturing down at the picture before him.

Harry spared it a glance. It was a picture of himself, a strange one that looked almost cast in black and white, and clearly from the first photoshoot he'd had with Draco. He recognised the outfit. There wasn't anything particularly remarkable about it in Harry's opinion, good or bad, but then again, he worked on the opposite side of the camera lens. He supposed Draco had a keener eye for that kind of thing.

"You can work later," Harry said. Half turning, he gestured with a tip of his head. "Come on. You don't have Pansy to have lunch with today, so you'll have to make do with us. Unless you wanted to eat with the other photographers instead? They usually congregate in the staff room on level three."

Harry didn't know if Draco ever ate with Pansy, or if he was inclined to mingle with the other photographers. He sincerely doubted the latter, but he offered the out anyway. Draco's subsequent repeated snort was answer enough. "Merlin, no."

"Then you've got no excuse. Come on."

"I don't need to –"

"Have you already eaten?"

Draco was silent for a beat before, "No."

"Good. Then let's go."

His friends were staring at him. Staring, silent and all but unresponsive, as he approached them once more. Ron looked little constipated again, Hermione was regarding Harry thoughtfully, and Ginny was darting her gaze between Harry and Draco so quickly she must have been giving herself a headache. It was she who spoke first.

"Is Malfoy tagging along? Wait, we're supposed to call you Draco now, right?"

"Tagging?" Draco echoed flatly.

"You…" Ron attempted. Swallowed. Reattempted. "You're, ah – you're really…?"

"If that's alright," Harry said, meeting Ron's wide-eyed stare, then Hermione's, then Ginny's. "It's just lunch, right?"

"Right," Ron managed, a little strangled. Hermione only nodded slowly.

"Of course it's alright," Ginny said. She was grinning so easily that her previous surprise seemed all but irrelevant in contrast. "Why not? The more the merrier, right, Draco?" Her smile grew faintly lupine as she glanced his way. "Excuse me if I don't shower you with hugs. I'd rather keep my head on my shoulders than have you bite it off."

"Likewise," Draco said immediately, arms folding casually across his chest. "I'd rather retain my dignity."

Ginny stared for a beat before bursting into laughter. "Yeah. Deal." Shaking her head, she made a snatching reach for Harry's hand and he found himself being tugged from the dressing room. "Come on then, troupe. I'm starving."

It was, Harry considered, the unlikeliest of circumstances that he found himself in that lunch at his new favourite café barely half a street from _Syren_ 's building. Ginny, still made-up for a glamour shot, Ron, seeming intent upon filling his belly to the brim to smother his discomfort, and Hermione, continuing to regard Harry as though he were a potion experiment likely to make an abrupt colour change.

And Draco. Draco, who seemed remarkably casual as he seated himself at the table alongside Harry. Draco, who had been quiet for the elevator ride, the walk from the building, and the extended wait to be seated. He'd only broken that silence to make his order when the waiter arrived before falling mute again.

Not that it really mattered. Harry didn't mind, and most of the time – or at least when it wasn't in small, all but exclusive company – Draco was rather quiet. That was a side of him that Harry hadn't thought possible before he'd witnessed it, but yes. Draco was quiet, could be very quiet, and did a good job of appearing natural at assuming silences, too.

After an initial bout of awkwardness in which Ginny talked too much, Hermione simply gazed thoughtfully, and Ron shifted so uncomfortably in his chair that there must have been a splinter protruding from the wood or something, it eased. It happened with the arrival of lunch.

"BLT?" the waiter asked as soon as he swept up to the table with arms precariously stacked beneath plates.

Ginny, in the throes of professing how much she liked the "quaint little café" and it's "kitschy décor", twisted in her seat towards the waiter. "That'll be me," she said, plucking it from his hands. "And the bread and soup – here, Hermione. Sorry, sir, did you have any butter for the bread – oh, sorry, I didn't even see it there. Oops."

The waiter spared her a professional smile before handing over a steaming pie to Ron at his raised hand. "And the chips too, mate," he said. "Thanks."

Ron was already three chips in, Hermione tearing her bread apart, and Ginny with a mouthful of sandwich by the time Harry raised his own fork. He paused when Ron gestured towards him with his basket of chips. "Oi, grab a handful, Harry."

Harry blinked. He stared at the chips for a moment, then up at Ron. _He's always been so oblivious_ , he thought with a mental shake of his head. As Ron could pack away enough to feed a small family at every meal and still have room for dessert, he didn't quite understand that other people couldn't. Or, in other cases still, shouldn't.

"No, I'm alright, thanks," Harry said, looping a ring of red onion around his fork instead.

"A salad isn't very substantial, Harry," Hermione said through a bite of bread.

"I know."

"Aren't you buggered?" Ginny asked, dropping her sandwich on her plate and licking her thumb before reaching for the water jug in the middle of the table. "I never knew that staged photoshoots could be so tiring."

"They're typically more so," Draco murmured.

As one, all eyes, even Harry's, drew towards him. Draco didn't seem to notice, or at least pretended not to as he scooped a mouthful of omelette onto his fork with the deft assistance of a spoon. He glanced at Harry sidelong as he did so.

The silence stretched to the brink of awkwardness before Ginny interrupted it. "Really? How come?" She turned to Harry. "Are they bad?"

"Not really," Harry said with a shrug, folding a leaf of spinach with his fork. "The days can just be pretty long sometimes, though."

"How long is long?" Hermione asked curiously. "You always say you head into work at about eight. If it's a shoot…?"

"I don't usually get home till around seven most nights," Harry said. "But – I mean, it's always in the studio. You've got the prep too, and consultations, and running between places, or even just requisite hours at the gym. It's pretty rare that you're at one place for the whole day, so."

"Bloody hell," Ron said, pausing with a chip in his hand and shaking his head. "And you're doing that all day?"

"We just established otherwise," Draco murmured, but so quietly that Harry was likely the only one to hear him.

"You know," Ginny said, "even though I'm beautiful all made-up and glamorous, I'm so glad it's you and not me, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry said with a smirk.

"Seriously, though. And let's face it, I'd probably die if I could only eat a – a – what is that, a garden salad?"

"Baby spinach," Harry corrected. "It's good, actually. Want some?"

Ginny eyed him sceptically. "What, and deprive you of what little you're actually eating?"

"It's not –"

"Are all models like this, Draco?" Ginny overrode him, ignoring Harry to peer at Draco. "Harry drinks like a bird in a water fountain whenever we go out to a club and eats just the same. I expect that's a habit of the trade?"

Draco didn't meet her attentive gaze. Instead, he drew his own from his plate towards Harry once more. "Somewhat, yes," he said.

"I'd die," Ron said emphatically.

"I'd just be starving," Ginny said, just as much.

"It can't be very healthy," Hermione said, frowning. "Surely you wouldn't get all of your nutrition from such a limited diet. Harry, have you considered –?"

"Are we really discussing my eating habits?" Harry said, glancing between his friends with a tight smile. "Again?"

"Well, it's been a while since we've brought it up," Ginny said, grinning crookedly. "Gotta keep you on your toes."

"Please, don't."

"It's just a health concern," Hermione said, abandoning her bread for her soup spoon. "But I'm sure Dot makes you go and see the doctor regularly, right?"

"Naturally."

"And so long as you're not picking up any bad habits like some models do." She paused, eyed him, and Harry shook his head obligingly. He didn't need another repeat performance of Hermione's blast of overprotectiveness when she'd realised the prevalence of eating disorders and body dysmorphia in the industry. As much as wanting to avoid worrying her, it was… well, it was kind of annoying.

 _If only you knew, Hermione_ , he thought, just as he had the last time he'd convinced her that 'no, going to the bathroom within half an hour of eating doesn't mean I'm throwing up in the toilet'. He was thankful he'd managed that much, at least; Ron hadn't looked any more pleased at Hermione's demand that he accompany him than Harry had been, if for somewhat different reasons.

"Can we please talk about something else?" Harry asked. "This is bad dinner conversation."

"Yeah," Ron said. "And stop comparing, Ginny. You're making me feel fat in comparison."

"Well…"

"Shut your face."

Predictably, the half-hearted argument that arose between them escalated quickly and morphed into something utterly diverging from the original topic. Harry settled back in his seat, grateful for that much, at least. He was used to being the centre of attention, had grown to be used to it, but this kind of attention? He didn't think he'd ever like that.

Surprisingly, however, as the conversation progressed, Harry found himself the focus of Draco's unwavering attention. Regardless of where it drifted and if Draco actually contributed or not, Draco would rarely settle his gaze anywhere but on his own plate or Harry.

"I could get used to this place," Ginny said when her argument with Ron finally died. She took an oversized bite of her sandwich, twisting in her seat to drag her gaze around the café, before peering curiously out of the window alongside them. "Yeah, I like it. Good picking, Harry."

"Maybe we could come again on the weekend?" Hermione suggested. "There's a sign on the counter that says they have a two-for-one special on Sunday morning."

"I'm sold."

A little while later followed, "Just because I'm good at it doesn't mean I'll just do you a favour for free," Ron said when Ginny requested he take a look at her apparently deceased computer. "It's my job."

"Yes, and I'm your sister," Ginny replied.

"I don't ask you to do me favours like that."

"Oh really? What do you call free tickets every season, then?"

"Well, that – that's not just me –"

"Uh-huh."

"You can't just –"

"Cheapskate."

Ron huffed, stabbing at the remaining chunk of pie pastry on his plate. He glanced across the table at Draco as he'd been doing throughout the entirety of lunch and, with what seemed to Harry a Herculean effort, said, "You're so lucky you don't have brothers or sisters, Malfoy."

Draco paused with his glass of water raised before his lips. His eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. "Quite," was all he said.

A little while after that, Hermione asked, "How'd you get into photography, Draco?"

Draco actually spared her an extended glance this time, which was more than he'd done to each of Harry's friends at their sparse questions or comments in his direction. "Happenstance," he said.

Hermione frowned. "Meaning?"

"I was in the right place at the right time."

It was apparent that he didn't intend to expand upon the statement further, and Hermione clearly saw it too. She simply nodded, smiled slightly, and turned towards Ginny to dive into an alternate discussion. Harry couldn't quite help but shoot Draco a sidelong glance with a slightly exasperated huff of laughter. He found Draco glancing at him in return and, surprisingly, just the hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

 _Well, what do you know_ , Harry thought. _Was he teasing Hermione? I never thought I'd see the day, let alone be happy about it._

Harry was half lost in thought, Draco absently checking his watch, and Harry's friends in various states of slouching and idle conversation, when his phone rang. Shaking himself from his thoughts, Harry drew it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. At the name depicted, he frowned, stowed it away once more, and tuck his hands between his knees.

Until it rung again.

Harry didn't check his phone this time. He didn't need to. He knew that Draco, as oddly attentive as he was, was watching him sidelong, but he ignored him, settling for tuning back into his friends' conversation instead.

His phone rung again. And again. And again.

"… Mum was saying that she wanted everyone to, um – Harry, are you going to get that?"

Harry shrugged as Ginny, Ron, and Hermione each glanced towards him. "It's fine."

"They're being pretty persistent," Ginny said.

"It's okay. I'll call him back later."

The ringing stopped. Then it started again.

"Is it some weird-ass stalker or someone that's got a hold of your number again or something?" Ron asked. He extended a hand across the table. "Here, I'll answer it and scare the shit out of him."

Harry smiled. _Not quite a weird-ass stalker._ "No, it's okay. It's just a photographer I used to work with."

"A photographer?" Draco asked quietly.

"One of the first, actually." Harry shifted uncomfortably as the ringing continued before stuffing a hand into his pocket and drawing it out. He flicked into his phone in the brief spell of silence after the call and twitched the sound off. "Samuel Ipetsky. He's nice enough."

"Is he demanding?" Draco asked just as lowly.

Harry glanced at him, but Hermione spoke before he could reply. "I can imagine that some photographers can be pretty demanding in a shoot," she said. "You were very lenient with us, Draco. I suspect we weren't the easiest team you've dealt with."

"Oh, come on," Ginny said, plopping both elbows onto the table and pouting. "I'm a delight."

"You're annoying," Ron said. "And getting worse in your old age."

"I'm not. You're just growing a backbone and fighting back more."

"You think so?"

"Yes. You should be so proud of yourself."

"Okay, backhanded compliment that it is, I'll take it."

"Why, because you're so starved for compliments when it comes to the verbal battleground that…"

She continued against what quickly evolved into Hermione being Ron's primary defender. Harry listened, but he barely heard a word of what they said. His phone continued to ring, and ring, and no amount of leg-jiggling and all but crushing his hands between his knees could alleviate the discomfort it elicited.

 _He's so bloody persistent_ , Harry thought, cursing mentally as the ringing continued after a hopeful minute's pause.

Sometimes it would be weeks. Sometimes even months. But it had gotten to the point that Harry was more than used to Samuel Ipetsky dropping him a string of repeated calls and affable messages. _Hi, Harry, how've you been?_ and _we haven't caught up for a while. Are you free for drinks sometime?_ or _I've got an offer for you. You'd know Francis d' Ore? As it happens, Franks a bit of a favourite of mine – says he's happy if I pull a few strings if you'd like…_

Harry certainly didn't dislike Samuel. He just didn't want to be in his company sometimes. It had nothing to do with how good a photographer he was, or how credible his name was. Samuel was a nice enough guy, and a good worker, but even so.

Harry was only detachedly aware that Draco regarded him to all but the exclusion of their surroundings. He might have thought something of it, for even with his frequent inexplicable staring, Draco usually wasn't usually quite so attentive, but he didn't. And when he and his friends finally rose from their seats to leave the café for the day, Harry didn't delay in his farewells and waves goodbye. He spared only a moment to exchange a smile with Draco, too, a nod and a word of appreciation that he'd joined them.

"You're thanking me?" Draco asked. He half turned on the curb, in the process of striding away, as Harry watched his friends similarly diverge down the pavement amidst the lunch hour crowds. "You're the one that did me the favour, Harry."

Harry wasn't sure what favour Draco was referring to. The companionship at lunch, maybe? But he didn't dwell on it. Diving into the sea of pedestrians, tugging his floppy hat a little further down his ears and his scarf a little higher up his chin, Harry extracted his phone from his pocket. With a huff of breath that just slightly misted the air before him, he raised it to his ear.

"Hi, Sammy. Yeah, sorry I missed you…"

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all of my lovely readers keeping up with this story! I'm doing my best to post regularly, but I'm sorry if they come a little sporadically. Please leave your thoughts if you have a chance. I really absolutely love to hear what you think of the chapter or story, good or bad!


	10. Chapter 10

WARNING: this chapter contains scenes and depictions of sexual relations. If you're not keen on reading that kind of thing... yeah, don't :)

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

Draco didn't like people.

Or, more correctly, he didn't like most people. Generally, his dislike arose from the fact that they didn't like him first. Witches and wizards seemed to smell his Malfoy heritage upon any encounter, lips curling and noses wrinkling before they more often than not spat in disgust, or loathing, or the shadow of prolonged grief that had no other target. He'd been a Death Eater, and no amount of concealment charms over the Dark Mark on his forearm could erase the darkness of his past.

But Muggles didn't like him either. As though in empathetic hatred with the witches and wizards scattered in their midst, they shunned him, whether deliberately or not. It didn't help that Draco knew he wasn't a friendly person, that he didn't assist in initiating any form of friendship, and that he knew he was good at his job. That skill in itself was always a deterrent, too; people didn't like being one-upped. They certainly didn't like missing out on a golden opportunity because a no-name slipped in before them and grabbed it from their greedy hands.

Since the interview with Harry Potter had been announced – for it had been an announcement, with all of the grandeur and hype that a Saviour and celebrity elicited – Harry had appeared in the papers almost as much as the magazines he modelled for. Draco had known it, had seen and heard whispers of it in the weeks leading up to further announcements, and the murmurs of wonder and excitement as to who would be chosen to not only drag the real truth of Harry's life story out but also to photograph him at their own whims were paradoxically deafening. Draco wasn't deeply immersed in the photographing community, and spent as much time as he could in the dark rooms at Building Eight when his attendance in the studio was required, but even he'd felt the buzz quivering in the air like static.

How quickly excitement had flipped into barely suppressed fury.

Readying himself in the studio, the company of only his two designated crewman that he'd barely bothered to learn the names of in dutiful attendance, Draco felt the tension that always gripped him slowly, incrementally easing from his shoulders. Even walking through _Syren_ was a minefield of dodging glares and hisses of hatred. Since that first intervention, Harry had stepped in with his amicable smile and gently raised hand on several more occasions, but that didn't mean the outright threats and physical violence didn't cease.

It was never anything particularly noteworthy. An elbow to the chest to wind him, a fist hooked into the gut just hard enough to bruise, or a jab to the kidneys that didn't quite manage even that much but still induced a brief influx of nausea. Sadly, Draco was becoming used to it. He was finding he actually missed Paris for the significant lack of such attacks; there was something to be said for working overseas.

One such bruise was still discomforting him from barely days ago. As Draco dropped to a squat, he couldn't quite withhold a grunt for the protest of muscles in his lower belly. He ignored the glance his assistant Dawley gave him and instead set about firmly affixing his attention on his camera as he unpacked it from its case.

Only to glance up reflexively as Harry entered the room.

How he knew it was Harry even before he lifted his gaze, Draco didn't know. He couldn't have said, couldn't have explained it, and yet he knew. Whether it was a magical instinct – for he'd heard of such triggers before – or something else entirely, each time Harry was in the room Draco couldn't help but look at him.

It wasn't because he was gorgeous, though he was, and Draco didn't even pretend anymore that he wasn't far too attentive to the way his jeans hugged to his legs and his arse. It was impossible to overlook the perfect fit of the loose cardigan hooked over his shoulders or the throat of his shirt that exposed just a little more skin than was likely intended for most street-wearers.

It wasn't because Harry had the seemingly naïve ability to draw the eye of everyone in the room either, though he did that, too. Whether for how he stood, or smiled, or simply because of who he was to so many of the Wizarding world, he captured attention like a spotlight was trained upon him.

It wasn't because he made a clatter of noise upon entry. Not because he announced himself like some of the divas Draco had worked with who considered themselves practically supermodels. He didn't strut, or look down his nose, or condescend as many in his situation likely would have. He simply… was.

And that was it. That was what made Draco look. Because he was Harry, not just Harry Potter, and because he stood up for Draco, talked to him like a friend, smiled at him, and even bloody well invited him to lunch with his friends. It was because Draco was rapidly realising that he was becoming, had likely already become, more than a little infatuated.

"Need a hand, Malfoy?" his assistant Yu asked, edging away from where he and Dawley stood to the side of the room as awkwardly and redundantly as ever.

Draco didn't spare him a glance. He knew Yu spoke only because he was staring. As two of the few _Syren_ photographers that were wholly magical and capable of wielding that magic with any skill – Draco knew they were dangerous without having to be told that they were practically bodyguards – there was only one reason that Yu would have chosen to speak to him.

 _Mind on the task at hand, Malfoy. You shouldn't even be in the room with him, let alone looking at him._

The words went unsaid, but Draco heard them nonetheless. Yu and Dawley didn't know Harry, didn't speak to him with more than a passing word here or there, and all but worshipped him when they did. They were as fiercely defensive of their Harry Potter as the rest of the world was.

 _He's like a doll_ , Draco thought, gritting his teeth and turning aside from where Harry crossed the room towards Pansy and their usual set up. _Like a china doll for them all to fawn over and cherish but not touch. Just admire from afar._

Scoffing beneath his breath, Draco shook his head. He hadn't thought Harry would have suited modelling, but the mould he'd been set in seemed a perfect design. It was almost as though he wasn't allowed a mind of his own; he was simply a face before a camera, in a magazine, before adoring eyes that prayed as much to their Saviour in thanks as they did whatever God appealed to them.

It was sickening. Draco hated it. But it fit. It fit Harry and what he'd become, what he'd been forced to become, like a glove. Draco was coming to many such realisations of late. He wasn't sure he liked stepping out of distanced ignorance.

"Good morning, Harry," Pansy said with friendly ease. She flopped her theatrical notepad down upon her vacated chair to cross the remaining distance between them, a picture of all smiles. "I like the shirt."

"Thanks," Harry said. "Apparently green's my colour?"

"You could say that," Pansy said with a smirk. "Didn't you have a whole month last year where practically everything you wore was green?"

"You've got a good memory. It was for St. Pat's Day."

"Which is only a single day out of that whole month."

"I didn't hear anyone complaining."

They continued their conversation as Draco rose to standing, as casual as acquaintances could be and sounding more like friends than ex-schoolyard rivals. Draco shook his head slightly again. He knew it was all Harry's fault. Or not quite fault, but something else. Whether he made nice to make a point as his last interview suggested he was doing or because that was simply the person he was, had become, had maybe even been forced into being, Draco didn't know. But just as he did with Draco, Harry made a distinct gesture of friendliness when it came to Pansy.

Or not quite the same as he did with Draco. It wasn't exactly the same. Draco had to tell himself that to avoid glaring just a little in Pansy's direction for reasons he didn't want to pursue.

The comfortable exchange, a backdrop to Draco's setting up and Dawley and Yu's murmured conversation, was nothing if not familiar. It had become so over the past weeks. Regardless of the fact that it had only occurred twice before, it felt somehow natural. When Von arrived, which he would at any moment, it would be just the five of them. Just the five in their small space, an isolated bubble in the midst of _Syren,_ excluded from the glares and hatred that followed Draco everywhere. That exclusion, coupled with Harry's company and the fact that Draco listened to him, heard him talk of a past, and was left just a little stunned time and time again because Harry _spoke_ and he spoke _for Draco_ as much as anyone else in his subtle hints at defence – that meant something.

Draco was infatuated. He knew it, and he didn't even try to hide that his dislike for filmography had dwindled to negligible in a handful of sittings.

He wasn't quite avoiding watching Harry and Pansy, was busying himself making final adjustments to his camera, his stand, checking the lights behind him and adjusting them just so, when conversation ceased. Mid-sentence, too, which was unusual enough for Pansy as, who stopped speaking and stuttered to a grinding halt.

Only to bark with sharp authority a moment later. "Excuse me. This is a private sitting. I'll have you step out, if you would."

Draco glanced sidelong at the man planted in the doorway that he'd mistaken in his periphery for Von. He looked – and he froze.

Photography wasn't a large industry in London, or at least not in the Wizarding world. There were some, but few enough truly expert in the field that Draco had to follow Dimitri's unwitting suggestion years ago and cast his net further afield. And Draco had learnt. He'd learnt a lot in his training, and not the least of which pertained to an initially begrudging and then progressively genuine respect for Muggles. They knew what they were doing with their technology, and they made it work. At times, they even made it work better than witches and wizards could.

Nonetheless, that slightly stunned realisation didn't dampen Draco's instinctive urge to compare himself to those with magic behind their lenses more fervently than others. Draco knew the name and face of every witch and wizard photographer of note in London.

Samuel Ipetsky was damned good at what he did.

He stood tall and smiling in the doorway, dark hair twirled into spikes and tipped with a hint of lightness as had become something of the fashion of late. His arms were propped in a casual lean on the door frame, and he appeared nothing if not friendly as he consumed the entirety of the entry.

Draco regarded him with narrowed eyes. He'd been wary of Ipetsky for a long time, as a competitor, if nothing else, but his awareness of the man had reached new heights since he'd first heard Harry mention him a week before. 'Friendly' didn't entail call after incessant call when those calls were clearly being ignored. It didn't step beyond the professional boundary of photographer and model that was supposed to be kept, a boundary that Draco was himself morally grappling with of late. It certainly didn't involve intruding upon a private sitting as though it had every right to do so.

Draco's hands curled around the light-fitting he held as he stared at Ipetsky, grappling with the urge to echo Pansy's works for emphasis. He should call someone. Security, maybe, or Von, or he could even just pull his own wand to –

"Sammy! What're you doing here? You said you weren't going to be back in London for a couple of days yet."

Startling, Draco swung his gaze towards Harry. Harry, who was smiling brightly in clear welcome and crossing the room towards Ipetsky in long strides. Ipetsky's smile widened into a grin, and he had no hesitation in looping an arm around Harry's neck as soon as he was within reach. He even went so far as to plant a quick kiss – a casual greeting if nothing more – upon his cheek.

Draco stared. He watched, frozen, and he couldn't look away. Wasn't Harry…?

"What, because it's so hard to make it over the Channel? I just caught an earlier trip."

Weren't those calls…?

"You told me you weren't finishing up until tomorrow."

From what Draco had seen, from the tight expression on Harry's face and the equally tight squeeze he'd given his phone before stuffing it away, hadn't he been…?

"I finished early. Called in a favour to get the job done a bit faster, which was all but impossible, but – I guess you can say I missed home? Berlin's not quite like London, you know."

"I wouldn't, actually. I've never been."

"No? Really? Then you should come when I go next time. Look, I could even land you a job if you'd…"

Draco watched, silent and immobilised, as Harry took a step out of Ipetsky's hold, settling himself at a comfortable distance. It didn't make sense. He couldn't understand it; not after what he'd seen barely days before. Those calls… Harry had clearly been uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable, even. His discomfort bordered on distress, the kind of smothered and muted distress that bottled down to little more than tension and a persistent twitch of his leg that Draco wouldn't have noticed at all had he not been sitting right next to him.

The modelling industry was gruelling. It was merciless, or so some people said. More than that, as with every industry, it had a dark side that was kept under wraps but occasionally seeped out into the open to the cringing side-eyes of onlookers.

That darkness – or, more correctly, that particular kind of darkness – was distinctly more prevalent when many workers involved models, however. Models that were positioned, and primped, and idealised, adjusted into near perfection in a way that was crafted to draw the eye. Draco had heard the stories; when his keen ear grew practiced enough in picking up the undertones of particular conversations, it was impossible to miss them. He'd heard, and it was one of the many reasons he built his boundaries between photographer and model as he did.

Had he been wrong to assume something with Harry? Something with Ipetsky? Pansy wasn't the only one who had done her homework on Harry's line of work; Draco knew Harry had modelled for Ipetsky years ago, in his earlier and still tentative days. He'd assumed…

 _But if something had happened between them, surely he wouldn't be so comfortable with him. Even if he didn't tell anyone._ Draco glanced between Harry and Ipetsky with sharp, darting attentiveness. There was nothing there. No animosity, no nervousness, no slight shuffling backwards that might have suggested that Harry wasn't anything but companionable with Ipetsky in return.

 _Was I really wrong?_

"… have to make the usual rounds," Ipetsky was saying with a sigh. The long-suffering tinge was wiped aside by his smirk that arose a moment later. "Consider me proud when I heard how many people are talking about you. And not just because of the interviews, mind."

"Proud?" Harry laughed slightly. "Are you trying to take credit again, Sammy?"

"Well, I practically made you."

"Of course. You keep telling yourself that."

"I'll keep telling _you_ that."

"I think Dot might have a thing or two to say about your opinion on the matter."

Ipetsky laughed, a loud, echoing sound that wasn't quite obnoxious, but Draco heard it as just that nonetheless. Fighting the distaste welling bitterly on his tongue, he glanced at Pansy.

At least he wasn't alone in his annoyance. Pansy met his eye and, with a deliberate finger, tapped her wrist. She wasn't interrupting when Harry was clearly feeling welcoming, but she wouldn't stand for a delay in their timetable, either.

Draco nodded. He didn't need to say anything – Pansy would do the talking as she always did – but he folded his arms across his chest and affixed a frown upon Ipetsky nonetheless. He didn't like him. Even if Harry really didn't have a history with him, he didn't –

"… time do you finish up today?" Ipetsky was saying, his hand rising to rest comfortably on Harry's shoulder heavily enough to jostle him.

"It just depends," Harry said with a shrug. He glanced towards Pansy. "So long as everything runs on time?"

"Which it would, if we could start," Pansy said pointedly. She took a step towards the doorway. "Mr. Ipetsky, I'm sure you're a credible man, but given the circumstances and the privacy of these interviews, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Ipetsky appeared nothing if not amused by her words. He glanced at Harry, lips twitching and eyes brightening. "I'm really not allowed to stick around?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply but Pansy dove in first. "You're really not."

Ipetsky chuckled. With a nod of his head, he squeezed Harry's shoulder once more and took a step backwards. "I apologise, then. I didn't mean to intrude. I'm merely checking in." He cocked his head slightly as he addressed Harry directly. "Give me a call when you finish up. We can head out for drinks if you'd like."

Harry's smile didn't waver. The friendliness didn't fade from his face, and his stance didn't shift. And yet Draco saw it. Maybe he was hoping for it, or expecting it, but for whatever reason he saw it. The slight tightening of his shoulders. The infinitesimal straightening of his spine. The barely perceivable way he leant back just a little. Nothing more. There was nothing more than that, but in the beat of pause that followed Ipetsky's words, Draco was struck.

 _This is really not right._

He wanted to say something. The words were on his tongue. _"Sorry, asshole, Harry and I are going out to dinner, so you can fuck off."_ He wanted to say them, maybe even would have, except Harry spoke first.

"Sure. Did you want to just head down to _The Corner_?"

Ipetsky breathed enthusiasm with his reply, but Draco didn't hear it except to know he spoke. He was far more concerned with staring at Harry's back, at his shoulders, where, barely noticeably, they twitched almost like a flinch. Like a drift towards tension before he caught himself. This was… Something was… The bitterness rising in Draco's throat flooded his mouth, and he had to clench his fists to avoid blurting out something he might regret.

"… afraid to admit we're on short time," Pansy was saying just as Draco hauled his attention back to the conversation.

"I'm sorry?" Ipetsky said, shifting his gaze to Pansy over Harry's shoulder. It froze for a moment, flickered with a hint of disdain or dislike or perhaps even disgust. Draco hated it. He always did, no matter how many times he saw it.

"She means you need to leave," Draco said curtly. "This is a private session."

His words rung hollowly in the room, almost a growl. Whether anyone else heard the coldness, the anger, Draco didn't know. He didn't really care, gaze fastened on Ipetsky yet not quite distracted from Harry's immobility.

Ipetsky didn't turn towards him immediately. When he did, with a slow, deliberate motion, Draco saw the moment recognition settled. He saw the instant Ipetsky's disregard of him as a side-lined audience member morphed into consideration and then repulsion as so often happened. Draco had never met the man before and hadn't really wanted to for reasons aside from his social ostracism, but the reaction wasn't surprising.

What did surprise him was that Ipetsky visibly shunted him to the side and refocused back upon Harry. His smile arose once more as friendly as ever. "Right. Sounds like I'd best be off. I'll call you?"

Harry nodded, and that was enough for Ipetsky. Offering a brief, communal farewell to the room in the form of a lazy wave, he sauntered out as though he owned the place. The static silence that arose in his absence was likely ominous only to Draco.

And maybe to Harry. Possibly, maybe, just a little, though watching as Harry stared at the empty doorway, Draco couldn't be sure. He hadn't a bloody clue.

Von arrived. Pansy sat. Harry dutifully attended to her as he should. And, as Draco settled himself behind his camera and began filming, he found himself glaring fiercely. It wasn't at the camera that he scowled but at Samuel Ipesky's afterimage that still hung in the forefront of his mind.

* * *

 **"… is just fascinating. So, throughout the entire year of your supposed disappearance…?"**

"Yeah. Pretty much."

 **"How often would you say you relocated?"**

"We never stayed in the one place for too long. It was move or risk being found by - by Riddle's followers."

 **"Yes, understandably. And with a price on your head…"**

"Yeah. You can't be too careful. We'd move every day or so, and more frequently if we had to. It felt a bit like a game of cat and mouse, except that we couldn't even see the cat."

 **"And it was just yourself? Just you and your friends, Hermione and Ronald?"**

"For practically the whole time, yes."

 **"You realise how impossible it sounds that a trio of seventeen-year-olds managed to evade one of the most cutthroat and persistent gangs in London of our time?"**

"And yet here we are."

 **"And yet here you are. You didn't ever feel the urge to falter? To turn yourself in?"**

"To Vol – to Riddle? No. Definitely not. He would have killed me."

 **"Even if you surrendered? Surely there's the possibility that he would have accepted your submission without your necessary death. Mercy in the face of almost certain murder when you're caught – I know what I'd choose."**

"Not for me. I don't think mercy or joining his ranks would have been a viable option. I'm fairly sure that Riddle wanted me dead no matter what."

 **"Because of your parents?"**

"Because of the people my parents worked with, yes."

 **"I admit, Harry, that I knew a little of just what you went through that year, being involved on a secondary level as I am. But I never considered it to be quite so drastic. In your shoes, I fathom many would have simply given up. It would have been easier."**

"There's always an easier path. But not for me. Not in this instance. That wasn't the one I was put on."

 **"You say put on. By who, exactly?"**

"What do you mean?"

 **"Who put you, a seventeen-year-old boy, on a path that would lead to almost certain death? It seems terribly cruel."**

"You could look at it that way. I guess you could say that Dumbledore was the one who encouraged me, but I think that would be exaggerating his role. Ultimately, Riddle is the one responsible when he painted a literal target on my head, but…"

 **"But?"**

"If you're looking for something like blame, there's never just the one person to pin it upon. You could say it's because of my parents that I ended up in my position, because they were on the opposite side of Riddle's war. Or you could blame the people my parents worked for. Or my professors, for encouraging me and teaching my what I'd need to know. Hell, you could even blame it on fate, or prophecy if you'd like, or even my classmates and friends, because how could I do nothing when they were threatened by Riddle's regime and his vendetta against me?"

 **"How indeed. And yet, in spite of all that, you were only a child. I don't think that anyone could truly blame you for selfishly turning aside from some perceived responsibility."**

"Perceived?"

 **"You said yourself that it was all but forced upon you – by Dumbledore, by your professors, by your peers…"**

"But mostly myself."

 **"What do you mean by that?"**

"At the end of the day, it's my choice, isn't it? A path might be put in front of me, and I might only have the choice of following it or digging my heels in to go the opposite way, but really, the choice is mine whether I move or not. If anyone's to blame, it's me."

 **"But you were a child."**

"Pansy, you sound almost concerned. What's this all about?"

 **"Consider it empathy of a sort, Harry. But really, you were a child. You shouldn't have to consider something as critical as your own safety and potential death at such an age."**

"Maybe not. But even a kid has to face those kinds of things. Many kids do on a daily basis. Just because they're not where we can see them doesn't mean it doesn't happen."

 **"It's almost strange to consider that, while I doubt there was a single person in London five years ago who wasn't aware that some calamity was afoot, there was no understanding of just how great a danger you claim you put yourself in."**

"It wasn't like I particularly enjoyed being in it, you know."

 **"And yet you're saying you chose it? Even when that decision shouldn't have been put before you?"**

"Yeah. It's funny, you know – every decision made that wound me up in a pickle seems to have been entirely my fault."

 **"Every decision? You don't believe the outcome is ever the result of the actions of another?"**

"No. Not to me."

 **"Interesting… Do you believe in that reality even now? Even today, in your current position?"**

"What are you suggesting?"

 **"Nothing. Nothing at all. Merely speculating. But back to the topic at hand: we're discussing the war that next to no one fully understood the extent of. If I was to ask you to paint me a verbal sketch of where you think you went throughout your evasions, could you…?"**

* * *

"Do what?" Draco snapped his gaze upwards to where Pansy stood above him. He didn't give her a moment to reply to his demand before all but lurching to his feet from where he'd been sitting at his desk. "No. Absolutely not."

Pansy huffed. "Be reasonable, Draco."

"Reasonable? No. No, I won't lower myself –"

"Lower yourself?"

Draco scowled. He was in a bad enough mood as it was. The pain of his bruised belly had eased somewhat throughout the day, but a knotted ball of malcontent in his belly had replaced it. Fucking Ipetsky. Fuck him and all of his skills as a photographer. Draco didn't even know the man, but he hated him, and a part of him knew it wasn't solely because of his interpretation of Harry's barely perceivable response.

 _If I'd said something first, would I be the one going out for drinks with him tonight?_

Draco hated the thought and hated even more that he knew it was entirely sincere and utterly jealous. The shoot had gone well enough, but his bad mood persisted and only grew throughout the afternoon as Draco stewed. It was intensified further by Pansy's words that was more of a demand than a suggestion.

Closing his eyes briefly, Draco took a breath that did little to soothe him. "No," he said. "I'm not going to follow Harry to take sneak-shots of him."

Huffing once more, Pansy propped a hand on her hip. She cast a frustrated glance around the empty room that was Draco's pseudo-office, towards the dressing room over her shoulder that Draco had seen Harry leave barely minutes prior, before resettling her gaze upon him.

"Don't be a fucking idiot," she said lowly.

Draco's scowl deepened. "I said no."

"What, because you've never done it before?" Pansy scoffed and continued before he could speak. "Even if you haven't, you know this is a good opportunity. Just how far do you think you'll fall back down when these interviews are finished, Draco? You need something to keep you afloat when the industry will still be stabbing you with accusations. Don't tell me you haven't felt the effects already, because I know you have."

Draco opened his mouth to reply but closed it again almost immediately. Pansy wasn't wrong, and she knew it.

In recent weeks, Draco's workload and work offers had dwindled substantially. It wasn't because he couldn't take on the extra jobs, because he could. He knew he could. What time he didn't spend filming Pansy's weekly interviews, or with Harry in his weekly shoots, was spent finishing up the jobs he'd already accepted and even refining those that didn't especially need it. Because he had time. He had too much time, even.

He'd expected it. Draco had expected the hatred that was to come with being Harry Potter's photographer. He knew Pansy had, too, and knew she also accepted the backlash in the face of what was offered to act as a counter-weight. That weight was notoriety.

For Draco, it was the same. Notoriety meant casting his name out into the world so that, when the initial heat and anger died, those curious yet noteworthy few who saw and appreciated his work would approach him. Draco was good. He knew he was good, knew he was skilled at what he did, and simply needed the jobs. Pansy, too, though to a lesser degree; she was already established as a cutthroat journalist and interviewer, and though some weren't partial to such an approach, others deliberately sought it from her.

Just as they would seek Draco.

There was the good to come, but for the time being Draco had to weather the bad. He understood that, and saw that similar weathering in the agency that Harry had stood by since he'd first been discovered. _Estallas en Ascenso_ was small, shouldered aside by many larger modelling agencies, but it was good. With Harry Potter as their poster boy, Draco knew that even they had become noteworthy; small though they were, disdained though they'd been and still sometimes continued to be, they were known.

That fame of sorts was worth it. It was worth _Estallas_ being considered the stain that smeared Harry Potter's good name for the notice it afforded. Draco recognised that, and he knew it reflected his own situation almost perfectly.

The fact of that matter was, however, that he would have to endure the moments of shadowed nothingness and waiting that was to come. Draco knew he would have weeks if not months when the interviews were being printed in which hatred for him, for Pansy, would peak. He knew he would have to keep his head down. Regardless of how well those interviews paid, he would be living on next to nothing in that time.

Pansy was right. Having in his possession a horde of secretly taken footage, shots stolen from dark corners and potentially even in the throes of suspicious activity, would be to Draco's benefit. It was the sensible thing to do, even, and he wouldn't be the first photographer to have done just that. He was perhaps even one of the precious few who hadn't so far.

But even so.

"I won't take pictures of him to use against him outside of the studio," Draco said. "It's not right."

Pansy's eyes narrowed. "Not right?"

"Not professional."

"Not fair, you mean."

Draco's jaw tightened. He didn't reply. There was understanding in Pansy's simple words, and understanding of what was there that Draco hadn't voiced. And that was –

"Exactly. I don't want to do that to him."

Pansy stared at him unwaveringly for a long moment. Then she clicked her tongue sharply and drew her gaze sideways in a glare. "Bloody hell, Draco. You've fallen deep."

There was no point in denying it. Folding his arms before him and pretending it wasn't in defensiveness, Draco nodded. "Yes."

"You shouldn't mix business with personal."

"I know."

"You idiot."

Draco snorted. "Admittedly, I am."

Pansy, face still turned indignantly to the empty room, eyed his sidelong. "You must really be far gone if you'll go so far as to admit to it."

Draco nodded. He agreed with that, too. In any other situation, he would have bucked and denied the truth. But Pansy already knew, and Draco had accepted it. There really was no point denying it.

With a sigh, Pansy took a small step towards him. Though there was only the distant murmur of voices in sidelong rooms, only the suggestion of eavesdroppers, she drew her wand and flicked a quick Muffling Charm around them that hung visibly for a moment before fizzling into transparency. Even then, when she spoke it was in a low voice.

"You saw it," she said. "I know you did. With Ipetsky."

Draco blinked. Why wasn't he surprised that, of all people, Pansy had noticed too? She was about the only other person in existence who likely would have. "I did."

"He didn't want to go."

"Clearly."

"Well, not clear to some." Pansy folded her lips for a moment, taking another shuffling step towards him so that there was barely half an arm's length between them. "Something's going on, and I know you'd probably already thought about heading down to _The Corner_ tonight before I suggested it. Tell me I'm wrong."

Draco didn't bother denying that, either. It wouldn't be worth it. When Pansy was certain, no amount of blathering and deflecting deterred her. "Going to the club isn't the same as taking sneak-shots, Pansy, and you know it."

"No," Pansy agreed. "But you could do both."

"I couldn't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both." Draco gritted his teeth again, swallowing back the snap of his words that were laced with more frustration than he'd wanted to admit to. Taking a deep breath, he schooled himself before raising his chin and continuing. "Don't you think he's had enough of people creeping around him and all but stabbing him in the back?"

Pansy's eyes narrowed again, but it was less a glare and instead more touched with thoughtfulness. "He doesn't care," she said with a touch of surprise, as though at the very notion she voiced was incredible. "You heard him today. He doesn't care what people do to him. Or use him for."

"That's the problem," Draco snapped.

Pansy jerked back from him slightly, and Draco scowled, firmly wrapping a mental shroud around his anger in an attempt to smother it. His efforts didn't really work, and Pansy likely noticed for the calmness of her following words.

"I think he wouldn't care if you used shots of him," she said slowly, "but if it bothers you, then tell him. Show them to him."

"It's still not right," Draco said, glaring at the empty space between them.

"To you."

Draco opened his mouth to reply but found no words. That was the problem. That was, ultimately, the problem that he was realising. Pansy was right. Harry truly didn't seem to care that he was being used, as a model or as an idol for worship and adoration in the Wizarding world. Just as he didn't – or at least no longer – cared that he'd been used by Dumbledore, and the professors of Hogwarts, and the publicly recognised Order of the Phoenix. Draco could still picture the slight smile on his face as he shrugged at Pansy's words even hours after he'd seen it, disregarding the fact as necessary at the time.

How he hated it. Draco hated that he could even think to disregard it. It wasn't right, because… because…

 _You should care more for yourself. You shouldn't just be what others want you to be._

The thought came out of nowhere, but when it rose, it settled firmly and comfortably in Draco's mind. It was true. So true that it almost stung, and Draco couldn't believe he'd only just realised it as a tangible thought.

Harry should care about himself more. He shouldn't just be used by others, for others, as they wanted. Not for his career, not for the war, not for their personal satisfaction. Not for Draco's need when the world turned against him and Harry's leniency was all that kept him afloat. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Draco couldn't voice that. He couldn't admit any of it, and yet something of his thoughts must have made its way upon his face, because Pansy spoke more gently than Draco had heard from her in years.

"You actually care about him," she said quietly.

Draco swallowed. That knot in his belly tightened sickeningly, but he couldn't deny what it meant. "Yes. Somehow. Impossibly."

"Maybe not so impossibly," Pansy said with a sigh. She shook her head, turning and propping herself against the side of the table as though defeated. "It was always that way with you two, you know? If you didn't hate one another then you were bound to go in the complete opposite direction."

Draco couldn't reply to that. Not when it rung a little painfully true as it did.

"You should go, Draco."

He didn't want to.

"You should take those pictures, and if you really have to, show them to him. Just as a fall-back. Just in case."

He really didn't want to.

"You know you want to. If not for the pictures, I know you wanted to go tonight. You saw it too. I know you did."

And that was the thing. Draco had seen it. He'd seen what Pansy saw, what apparently no one else had, what no one else realised. Not even Harry's friends when Ipetsky had been calling, and calling, and calling, and Harry hadn't picked up. How could Draco not go? How could he not?

Which was why, at ten o'clock that evening, Draco found himself outside of a thumping club aglow with red and orange lights that somehow made it seem subdued rather than kitschy. It was why he had his camera slung over his shoulder yet hidden by a Disillusionment Charm, and why he nodded at the bouncer as he stepped past the absence of a line on a Monday night.

 _A Monday night at a club,_ Draco thought with a mental snort. _Who'd have thought?_

Clubs weren't Draco's scene. He didn't like a single part of them. Maybe it was because of his more refined tastes, his upbringing that demanded 'proper' partying, but he didn't like the heaving, thumping music that beat through the soles of his feet as much as his eardrums. He didn't like the shadows that revealed as much as they hid, the flashing lights that assaulted his eyes, the struggle to hold a decent conversation.

Mostly, however, he didn't like being surrounded by so many people. Not only had Draco learnt to be wary of people as a whole, but in a club…

There was something about them. Something about the way the dancers danced too close, their bodies undulating against one another in a mimic of sex. How shoulders pressed against one another and stayed pressed, suggestive and demanding, and lips breathed whispers in ears, warm and enticing. That a stare across the club wasn't simply a stare but an invitation, that a hand brushing past was similarly inviting, and that, more often than not, the drinking and the headiness of the club itself incited passion that revelled in the ready escape of Apparition.

Draco had been to few enough clubs in his time, but he knew that much at least. He knew he didn't like them and he knew what to expect. _The Corner_ was no different.

It was dark, yet contrastingly bright with its coloured lights. The bar was illuminated with a pair of tenders darting back and forth, bottles pouring and hands palming drinks off to waiting clients. It was cluttered with bodies, and though not as many as would inhabit on a weekend, it was enough for Draco. Too much.

Standing just inside the doorway, Draco drew his gaze across the sea of people. He ignored the glances that turned his way curiously, and more determinedly those that lingered. He overlooked the distinct nature of the attendants, the predominance of men and lack of female representation, even as a murmur in the back of his mind reminded him of the comment Pansy had made in the interview the previous week. _I guess her suspicions weren't far off_.

It should have satisfied Draco. Maybe it should have heartened him a little, to know that, with whatever infatuation he'd developed, whatever he wanted to evolve from it, Harry might be more receptive than he could have been. But Draco wasn't satisfied. If anything, that sick feeling in his gut roiled once more, and he scanned for Harry and Ipetsky with growing discomfort, his fingers tightening and loosening compulsively on his concealed camera.

He saw Ipetsky first. The tall man was prominent where he stood at the bar, white shirt stretched across his shoulders and spiked hair as stupid as ever. He fit seamlessly into the scene alongside with other attendee of the club in his casual yet fitted clothes that would likely draw the eye of anyone who looked if he wanted them to.

Which he clearly didn't, given his attention was wholly focused upon Harry at his side. In an instant, Draco's was too.

What was it about him that Draco found so captivating, even from afar? Even without the unwavering stare that had caught him so often, why was it that whenever Draco looked at Harry of late he couldn't look away? It wasn't even when he was done up with makeup, of dressed in clothes so perfectly tailored or so revealing while simultaneously concealing that even a unquestionably straight man would stare.

In the midst of the thudding club, the darkness and shadows that didn't quite muffle Draco's view of Harry even from a distance, the bodies that stood in the way and he wished to thrust aside, Draco saw each and every part of why. It was the way Harry stood, casually comfortable and with the barest hint of a pose that looked entirely natural. It didn't ask to be stared at but somehow demanded it anyway. It was the way he smiled at the bartender as he passed, not offhandedly but as though he sincerely meant the fondness of his smile. It was everything about him from his hair, the tight fit of his own shirt, the even tighter fit of his jeans, that drew Draco's eye and punched him in the gut in a way that was nothing like the fist that had bruised him but left a mark nonetheless.

Draco stared, and he couldn't look away. As he watched, and as Harry raked a hand through his hair, in spite of himself Draco's hand twitched around his camera. It was those moments, those everyday actions, that Draco loved. It was what he couldn't help but long to capture, even if his morals demanded he recoil from such an inclination.

He still wanted it, thought. Draco still wanted that picture as much as he wanted to deck Ipetsky in the back of the head.

"You looking for someone?"

The voice came from his shoulder. That was all Draco registered. From his periphery, he got the barest impression of the man who had approached him – broad, square chinned, with a dark shirt that seemed to drink what little light struck him from the dancing strobes – but disregarded him instantly. With barely a shake of his head, Draco started down the short flight of stairs from the entrance into the club proper.

Bodies crowded him immediately. Draco didn't like it. The smell of sweat, alcohol, and aftershave was a cloying concoction, and he didn't like that either. Dodging between men, under glasses raised overhead so as not to spill, laughing faces shoved in his own, and more shoulders intent on bumping than he ever wanted to experience, Draco made his way to the bar. Slotting himself in a narrow gap at the counter, he eyed where Harry and Ipetsky sat and talked at a distance, barely perceivable through the people, the darkness, the almost visible blur of the music that bellowed at him.

The bartender swept past and paused only long enough for Draco to hail him with a muted request. The man nodded with a tokenistic smile before disappearing again, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. When essentially stalking someone, whether for pictures or otherwise, such aloneness was never good for the mind.

What was he doing here? Draco picked at the sticky bar top, scowling to himself. Honestly, what how had he let himself be coaxed into coming to the club? It wasn't because of Pansy's bloody suggestion, even if he was incessantly aware of the weight of it hanging from his shoulder pointing him towards his camera. It wasn't because he was hoping to interrupt the companionable conversation occurring a dozen bodies down the line, because, much as he might want to, Draco knew he wouldn't.

 _I'm here because no one who's happy to be going out for friendly drinks should have reacted like Harry did,_ he told himself, but even that excuse seemed less and less valid the longer it sat with him. Draco hadn't always possessed wavering confidence, but that was an affliction that had certainly struck him over the years. He couldn't help but wonder, had he imagined what he'd seen that morning? Pansy's similar observation seemed to deny misunderstanding, but what if he had? Harry hadn't appeared out of sorts after Ipetsky left. Nothing about his interview suggested he was anything but as comfortable as always, both with the interview itself and what would come after.

If Draco considered, he thought – no, if he _knew_ that something was afoot that caused Harry discomfort, he would think that it was as though Harry didn't expect anyone to step in, even if he was in a fix. Even if he wanted to get out of it. As though he had to plough on through the necessary situation with a contented smile firmly affixed because he was the only one who knew and could get him out of it. It was as though…

 _"Every decision made that wound me up in a pickle seems to have been entirely my fault."_

Draco had been struck by those words in the interview. He'd stared at the image caught by his camera, at the crooked smile Harry wore, and it struck him hard. It wasn't because of the way Harry said it, for he spoke as offhandedly as he did every other statement. Not because there was a sigh, or an awkward pause following. It was just the words, only the words, but following what had preceded them that morning, what Draco had seen a week before with an incessant, demanding caller, suggested something far greater than their face value.

 _He doesn't expect anyone to notice and he doesn't expect anyone to step into something he's supposedly gotten himself into._

Draco reminded himself of that as he sat at the bar, as the chiding thoughts assaulted him, and when the bartender returned, he remained in silence to sip at his drink. He thought of that as he eyed Harry and Ipetsky sidelong, watched as they laughed, as Ipetsky tossed his head back with a bark of amusement that Draco swore he could hear even through the thundering din of voices and music. He told himself that he was here for a reason, even if he wasn't wanted, as his ears began to thrum with the pounding bass, as his eyes grew completely familiar with the night blindness, and as he finished one drink and beckoned to the bartender for another.

A man approached him. Asked him something barely audible over the music. Draco turned him away with barely a word.

Another approached, and Draco didn't even bother glancing his way. The man, whoever he was, didn't stick around for long but scowled and slouched off with a glare flung towards Draco that Draco only saw from his periphery. What did he care if a Muggle got offended by his disregard?

For they were Muggles, Draco realised. Muggles in a Muggle club. He didn't care, and would probably even prefer a Muggle establishment if he actually had any preference at all, but he had to wonder.

 _Why here?_

Harry had suggested it as though it were commonplace. As though they'd been before. Maybe they had. Maybe there was an underlying reason for coming, other than the fact that it was clearly a gay bar and Ipetsky's blatant forwardness that had Draco scowling so severely wouldn't look out of place. The Wizarding world might not have a problem with it, but Muggles were inexplicably a different story when it came sexuality. It was just one of many things that had always baffled Draco.

He was on his third drink when a persistent tosser appeared at his elbow and wouldn't leave. The man, willowy and swaying with drunkenness that reeked from his breath, all but sprawled across the bar at Draco's side as he attempted to catch Draco's attention.

 _Just bugger off,_ Draco thought as he eyed the man tripping over his tongue in an effort to find coherence. _If you're too drunk to realise I've rebuffed you then you shouldn't be here._

"… could – could really go for 'nother drink," the man said, words slurring and grin widening. He had a gap in the middle of his front teeth that made him seem remarkably young. "Whadaya reckon?"

Draco blinked, gaze hooded.

"You – you think? You'll have one wi' me?"

Draco took another sip from his glass, the citric bite of the lime stinging just slightly.

"I reckon you… reckon you'd be some good fun, eh? Wan' ta see if I'm –"

"Your friend is calling you," Draco interrupted him.

The man blinked owlishly, smile faltering. He struggled to push himself upright with the aid of the bar and didn't quite manage. "Wha'?"

Draco gestured to no one in particular over the man's shoulder, and, as he lurched around in a stumble, pushed himself from the bar and strode away. A slight fuzziness touched his mind, blurring the edges slightly, but it wasn't anything marked. He'd been at the club for a handful of hours already; it wasn't like he couldn't manage if he paced himself.

Slipping away from the bar, Draco took a brief, circulatory turn around the tables scattering the floor before once more returning to the line of attendees with drinks in hand and companions at their shoulders. He saw the gap-toothed kid already attempting to chat up someone else. A short, wide man turned from the bar with his arms laden beneath glasses. A pair were in such violent, hysterical laughter that they looked to be nearly falling of their stools, and Harry –

Draco's stomach dropped. That tight knot that had been coiled in his gut clenched with renewed force. Harry wasn't there. Neither was Ipetsky. Draco hadn't seen them leave and cursed the bloody git who'd distracted him from his sidelong staring that was maybe a little creepy but that he chose to ignore for its creepiness.

Turning in place, Draco scanned the darkened club that had swelled in number of clientele since he'd arrived. It was a little unextraordinary given it was a week night, but it dense enough that his frustration doubled by the time he'd darted his gaze across every inch. Had they really left?

It was stupid of him, but Draco checked in the bathrooms.

It was truly foolish, but he took another round of the club, peering through the staggering midst of dancers and drinkers and drinking dancers.

He should have just left, should have just accepted that Harry and Ipetsky had too, but a part of him didn't want to. He couldn't, because that part knew where they would have retreated to and he didn't want that. Abruptly, with the force of a colliding truck, it hit Draco that he didn't want Harry to go home with Ipetsky at all.

Draco lingered, and it was only because of his continued scanning that he noticed the pair of stumbling drunkards with their arms pretzeled around one another slipping from behind a heavy curtain, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond. The curtain flopped closed again, seeping into camouflage against the dark wall alongside it, but not before Draco was striding across the club towards it, all but shoving clubbers out of his way as he did.

Why a club would have such a blatant set up was ridiculous to him, but even as his heartbeat thudded in his ears louder than even the music, he supposed it was logical. Better the lust-blown fools seek privacy there than in the bathrooms. Better than on the dancefloor itself. Better than leaving and robbing the club of clients. It was almost too perfect, and despite himself, despite what he wanted, Draco felt almost sure that he would find Harry beyond it.

He dove through the curtain in a snap. The hallway was dark, narrow, and spotted with more curtains like a forest of heavy cloth-trees. Hissing beneath his breath, the sound swallowed by the music thudding even through the heavy curtain behind him, Draco strode along the hallway and cursed what a stupid accommodation was provided. He hated it, hated it, hated –

 _"Invenio,"_ Draco snapped almost before he'd pulled his wand from his pocket, and he was all but running after the little firefly of red light that appeared to seek as he per his mental request. Running, clutching his jostling camera like a lifeline and hating himself just a little, he swiping aside the curtain the globe disappeared through.

And froze. How could he not when, in the instant of revelation, all Draco could see in the not-quite-encompassing darkness was Harry's thigh?

He'd lost his ridiculously tight jeans somewhere. And his pants, for that matter, though it clearly didn't bother him. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen a model so careless of the location of their clothes as Harry was in that moment. Shoulders pressed against the wall, head rocked back and eyes closed, his lips were slightly parted to release short, sharp breaths that Draco could _feel_ if not directly hear. His hands clutched at Ipetsky's stupidly spikey hair, making a mess of it, but Ipetsky didn't seem to care. He didn't even seem to notice, on his knees as he was, mouth wrapped around Harry's arousal and one hand clasping Harry's arse as his fingers –

Draco nearly flinched and fled from the scene. Nearly, and not because he was horrified by the sight – or not necessarily. He'd had enough experience witnessing what lay beyond closed hallways and behind locked doors to feel little fascination with what he saw. But always in closed hallways. Always behind locked doors. This was… it was…

He didn't want this. Not at all. Not _him._

Draco's fingers trembled around his camera. A crazed, shrill voice in his mind told him to take a picture. It was the scoop that Pansy demanded. But Draco couldn't remember the first thing about even using a camera, because Ipetsky was shuffling forwards on his knees and pulling Harry's hips forwards.

He should take a picture –

But he could only stare as Harry gasped, released a barely audible groan, and sunk a little down the wall beneath the man's persistence.

He should – Pansy said he should –

But Ipetsky was abruptly standing. He was on his feet and in short order had Harry off his own. Somehow, in a remarkable display of dexterity that looked all but practiced, Ipetsky managed to hook his elbows behind one of Harry's knees, lifting him off the ground and all but crushing him against the wall as he pressed himself forward him with a groan.

The bass boomed behind Draco as Harry was pinned against the wall. The shouts, the echoes, the bellows of laughter dribbled into his ears as the fucking spikey-haired prat latched his lips onto Harry's neck. As he pressed himself against Harry, his hips canting forwards and fingers tightening, and thrust with a solid slap.

A groan. Harry's toes curling. A gasp. Another slap, and then the sharp succession of grunts and thrusts. Draco's hand had somehow found the curtain behind him, had gripped with white-knuckled tightness, but hardly noticed.

He hated it. He _hated_ it, he _hated_ that he –

Should take a picture. Stupidly, the thought clattered in his head, nagged Draco was supposed to –

He didn't want… couldn't _have_ –

Draco couldn't look away, and maybe that was how the curtain he clutched was so thoroughly torn from his grasp. A shoulder ploughed into his own, a body alongside it, then another. Draco couldn't even look away from the display before him when whoever had intruded squawked, their companion exclaiming, and then dissolved into a fit of snorts and giggles nearly lost to the pounding, thundering bass behind following them in.

"Oops," a skinny bloke with too many tattoos managed to say through his laughter. "Looks like we're beaten to the play."

His companion was already backing into the curtain, shoulders shaking and face twisted with laughter. Or Draco thought it was. He couldn't see much from his periphery and he couldn't look away from Harry – his legs, his clutching arms, the curl of his fingers and the heavy fluttering of his eyes as he gasped, gaze swung towards the poor excuse for a door.

They'd fallen apart, Draco realised. Ipetsky, the spikey brute, had all but dropped Harry, lurching backwards as Harry crumpled onto the ground before him. Cheeks flushed, apparent even through the darkness, Ipetsky scrambled to put himself away, fumbling with his zipper and cursing as he did so. Then he froze as he appeared to register Draco's presence.

Not Harry, though. Not Harry, and Harry was the only thing that Draco really saw. Still breathing heavily, legs steepled before him, he slumped back slightly against the wall with eyes heavy lidded as they too drew towards Draco. Had there been something more enticing, something heated and demanding in that stare, Draco might have thought it a subtle proposition. But there was nothing. There was nothing of the kind at all. Unwavering as ever, Harry's stare was as mellow as ever, too.

As if he hadn't just been fucked against a wall.

Draco hardly noticed when Ipetsky lurched into motion. He barely heard the sharp, spitting, "shit. Dammit, Malfoy, you – you didn't –" before stuttering into growling curses. He was hardly even aware of the moment that Ipesky snatched his wand from his jeans and, swinging in a wild turn with barely more than a glance towards Harry and a frustrated groan, disappeared in a crack of Apparition.

He was gone. And Harry was alone. And Draco could have taken a picture, could have the scoop that Pansy suggested was so useful for him, but he didn't. He could only stare and then flinch at the weight of Harry's words when he spoke in a murmur.

"He always Apparates away in the middle of it when this happens. Sad to say it's not the first time we've been walked in on."

With a deep breath, a sighed exhalation, Harry draped his arms across his knees. It was likely unintentional – or was it? – but with hair mussed, his cheeks still slightly flushed, and naked from the waist down, it was such a perfectly languid pose that it could have been choreographed. Could have been scripted. Could have very easily taken prime place before Draco's lens and not looked amiss in the slightest, despite the promiscuity it entailed.

Draco didn't think even Pansy would scold him for not taking the opportunity that presented itself, even if Harry was aware of it. Draco wouldn't have cared if she had. He didn't really care about all that much at that moment other than Harry. _I'll fucking murder Ipetsky, the filthy coward,_ was the only logical thought that passed through Draco's mind, riding upon the shoulders of a sudden bout of irrepressible fury. The clenching, roiling, twisting chaos in his gut was so fierce it nearly bent him double, and his rage was only distracted when Harry continued.

"Didn't know you were into voyeurism, Draco," he said, utterly calm, if still a little breathlessly. "But I suppose, being someone who practically watches people for a living…" He tipped his head sideways onto his arm, blinking slowly.

It should have been a picture. That moment should have been a picture, and it should have been beautiful, and it should have been because of Draco. Not like this. Never like this. With rage still pounding in his ears, unable to articulate even the beginnings of a reply, Draco strode forwards. The curtain was only spared being dragged after him by remarkably resistant hangers.

Harry watched him approach, and he didn't protest. Just as he didn't comment when Draco cast a sharp glance around the floor, or when he stalked towards the discarded pile of Harry's clothes and snatched them up. He only tipped his head to watch as Draco took himself back towards his side, dropping onto his haunches.

Harry gave another slow blink. It was too calm, too collected and detached for the thrumming beat that vibrated through the floor, echoing that pounding in Draco's head. Harry made no motion to take the clothes from Draco's hand where he all but crushed the denim into a bundle.

"Thanks," was all he murmured.

A simple word. Simple gratitude, mild and unremarkable but still grateful, snapped the last thread holding Draco together. Exhaling harshly, he dragged his gaze to the side, to the curtained entrance, to the darkened walls. When he growled a reply, he was almost surprised by the ferocity of his words.

"We're getting out of here."

Harry didn't protest when Draco grasped his shoulder in a grip he struggled to keep gentle. He did nothing more than blink his acceptance as Draco dragged them into a narrow tube of their own Apparition. When Draco thought about it, he didn't think Harry even knew how to say no.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all of the lovely people who reviewed last chapter! I am so unutterably grateful! Sorry that it's a little bit late this week; hopefully I'll get back on track for next chapter. See you next time!


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: So, I was going to wait a little longer to post this chapter, make it a regular with another week, but it feels too much like the second half of Chapter 10 for me to wait that long. So, have it a little early! Hope you enjoy.

Just a WARNING, however: this chapter contains discussions of consent, dubious consent, and significantly biased thinking and mindsets surrounding the subject. Please be aware that they are by no means my own, and if you think this might be triggering for you, please read with caution.

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

 _The first time he met Samuel Ipetsky, Harry was barely a child in the modelling world. Not even months after his first photoshoot, his first real photoshoot, and Dot was drowning beneath offers – not to shoot Harry, but to photograph Harry Potter._

 _Maybe that was why. Maybe that was the reason Dot chose Sammy. Despite being a part of the Wizarding world, a part of the ranks that knew the name Harry Potter and what it meant, he wanted Harry as a model more than the Saviour. That was enough for Dot. It was enough for Harry, too._

 _The building, tall and sleek. The workers, efficient and professional. The studio, a juxtaposing white backdrop, and heavy lighting, and the radiance of sunlight through wide, open windows for the 'natural' effect. It was familiar, was becoming familiar, even if the location changed, and yet Harry was still curious enough to poke his head through half-open doors when he arrived simply to look._

 _That was how he met Sammy for the first time._

 _He was tall – a little taller than Harry, which in the modelling industry wasn't saying much and was becoming an increasing regret of Harry's. He was bright – his smile, his laugh, his animated voice as he chatted with his fellow workers and directed them in set-up. He was a presence – and Harry's eyes were drawn to him whether he wanted them to be or not._

 _Sammy noticed him. Like a magnet drawn to a lodestone, he paused mid-conversation with a worker dressed in monochrome black, and turned towards Harry. He stared. Then he smiled, and his whole face lit up with enthusiasm as he quickly crossed the room._

 _"_ _Harry! It's such a pleasure to meet you. Let's make something great, shall we?"_

 _His hand was warm when Harry took it. His shake was firm. If anything, that moment had been Harry's first real step into the world of modelling, and it had set him on a path he hadn't ever seen for himself. Harry unwittingly made a choice in that moment, and even years later he was undecided as to whether it was the right one or not._

* * *

Harry landed with a heavy thud, and the weakness of his knees couldn't keep him on his feet for long. He slid to the floor, his belly twinging only slightly as was both familiar and inevitable with Apparition. He hurt just a little, and though not from the Apparition, the hurt was familiar too.

"Shit," was cursed sharply at his side, and he glanced towards where Draco too had fallen to his knees as his side.

A part of Harry knew he should be embarrassed. A part of him even was, because that Draco had seen him, that _anyone_ had walked in on him and Sammy, was rightly mortifying. But he wasn't. Not really. He should be perhaps a little angry, too, at Sammy for disappearing and leaving him not only in a state of undress but decidedly vulnerable in the face of his potential embarrassment. But he wasn't really that, either.

Harry felt only numb. And hurting. Somehow both at once.

Through the darkness, he could only barely make out Draco's features. The pale oval of his face, the equally pale shade of his hair, his dark clothes that seemed to blur into the surroundings. And yet, even with his near invisibility, Harry could feel the heat of his anger. He'd seen it just briefly, too. After his intrusion, after the blank shock that he'd seen on Draco's face when he'd first glanced towards him – after all of that, Draco had been furious.

Harry wasn't sure which part informed him of that. He hadn't even known he was familiar enough with Draco's expressions – or lack of expressions – to perceive fury to the degree he had. Maybe it was in the hard lines of his face, Draco's angular features made sharper by the darkness and the anger that tightened his jaw, muscles bunching just visibly through the shadows of _The Corner's_ back rooms. Maybe it was the way he'd shot a glare so venomously towards the space of Sammy's absence that it surely would have struck him dead had he still stood there. Or maybe it was the iron-hard clasp of his hand on Harry's shoulders as he'd pulled him into Apparition.

Iron-hard, but not tight. Firm, but somehow it hadn't been demanding. It hadn't been confining and restrictive. Harry couldn't feel intimidated or dominated in Draco's grasp, not when his fingers trembled just noticeably.

Harry wasn't sure if Draco still trembled. He'd dropped his hand from Harry's shoulder and edged backwards a shuffling pace on his knees. The dark smudges of his eyes were fixed upon Harry, and all Harry could do was sit and wait, sprawled in his state of undress with his jeans dropped and all but forgotten in his lap.

And think.

 _I wish he hadn't seen._

Where the thought came from, Harry didn't know. He wasn't quite sure what triggered it, but instead of embarrassment, instead of anger, what welled forth was regret and something like shame. He wasn't ashamed to be fucking Sammy, not even really to have been found doing so, but that Draco had been the one to walk in on him? Somehow, it burned in places Harry hadn't even considered.

"Sorry," Harry found himself mumbling, dropping his gaze towards his lap and the crumpled jeans resting in his limp clasp. His eyes stung a little, the spell that let him see without his glasses objecting to its long-term use, but he didn't care. Besides, the stinging… for some reason, Harry didn't think the twinging in his eyes was entirely because of the spell. Sniffing didn't alleviate it in the slightest.

"Why?" Draco asked quietly.

Harry sniffed again before raising a hand to press his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. "Sorry you had to see that."

"Had to see…"

"I know it's not unexpected." Harry pressed his fingers into his other eye, and it helped a little, but they still stung. "I mean, no one with a grain of awareness can really overlook that a good chunk of photographers and stylists sleep with their models, but…"

"It's disgusting."

Harry flinched. Venom dripped from Draco's voice, thickened with a resurgence of anger. "Yeah," he said quietly, dropping his hand back into his lap and training his gaze onto his knees. "Sorry."

Draco was silent for a moment. The he huffed through his teeth, muttered something under his breath, and edged so slightly forward that he may not have even bothered to move at all. "Not you, Harry," he said harshly.

Harry picked at his jeans. "No," he said mildly. "I am."

"I didn't mean –"

"I pretty much lost all right to dignity when I gave it to Sammy. Again."

"That wasn't what I –"

"Imagine what the Wizarding world would think of their Saviour if they knew." Harry snorted, but it didn't come out quite right. He plucked at a loose thread in the denim of his jeans, tugging it free. Von would hate him for doing so, he noted detachedly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "It doesn't exactly fit with the image that I'm supposed to have. Though I suspect people have speculated. Really, how could you not? And Sammy's pictures, the ones he'd taken of me – they don't leave much to the imagination, you know? I'm surprised there hasn't been a story about it already –"

" _Stop_."

Draco's interruption cracked like a whip. Harry didn't glance towards him, but he fell silent. Eyes downcast, he couldn't quite bring himself to look at Draco, to raise his gaze and interpret what Draco's shifting in place, his shuffling, the curses under his breath and his muted hisses, meant. The shame was still there, the regret just as strong, and it only sunk its teeth in further the longer he sat with it.

"Sorry," he found himself saying once more. He didn't even rightly know what he was apologising for.

Draco didn't reply, but his shuffling ceased. As Harry set in bottled silence, swathed in a dark cloud that had nothing to do with the darkness shrouding the unfamiliar room, the pause of utter silence hummed like static between them. Then, with a heavy sigh that seemed to draw all remaining anger from Draco's voice, he said, "Why are you apologising again?"

A smile touched the corner of Harry's lips, niggling slightly but failing to manage more than that. He hitched a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't even know."

Another sigh, and then Draco was straightening. He murmured a nearly inaudible " _accio_ ", and Harry caught the vague lift of his wand from the corner of his eye as he did so. A moment later and he was all but forced to glance up, because Draco had shuffled on his knees to his side and draped the warmth of an incredibly soft blanket around his shoulders.

Harry hadn't even realised he'd been shivering slightly in the cool room, but Draco had.

"I'll make some tea," Draco muttered, rising fluidly to his feet. Harry could only stare after him, his eyes stinging even more fiercely now, and draw the blanket a little more tightly around his shoulders. Surprisingly, that simple weight, the warmth that had to have been magical, and the smell that clung to it in a faint echo of Draco, was remarkably comforting.

* * *

 _The first time Harry realised Sammy was more – more than his photographer, more than the friend he'd become, more than the colleague of sorts who was a little handsy in his affection but not in a bad way – was in the middle of a dinner. A dinner with just Sammy._

 _A touch on the shoulder had been friendly, affectionate, and companionable, because that was who Sammy was. That he stared so intently was because he was a photographer, because that was his job, because he was focusing not on Harry but upon his model. The accidental touch on the leg, the moments when he'd lean in close to whisper or laugh in Harry's ear, the offhanded comments:_

 _"_ _You take gorgeous pictures, Harry."_

 _"_ _Has anyone ever told you…? No, never mind."_

 _"_ _I'll bet you're popular."_

 _That last had been confusing. Harry wasn't familiar with the intricacies of romancing or sex, had only ever dated two girls in his life and both relationships had ended anticlimactically and in vastly opposing outcomes. What Sammy had said – was it about Harry's modelling? That he was famous because he was the alleged Saviour? That he was, for whatever reason, accepted as a companionable person?_

 _Harry hadn't known until dinner, until after dinner, when Sammy had touched his shoulder. When he'd stared intently. When he'd leant into Harry's ear, breath a curl of warmth, and whispered so surprisingly. Not until he'd kissed Harry a moment later, and all the little bits and pieces had clicked into place._

 _Harry hadn't known he liked Sammy. He hadn't known he'd wanted to be kissed. He hadn't known that dinner was more than simply dinner. But apparently Sammy had known, and that was good enough._

* * *

Harry cradled the mug in his hands. It nearly burned his skin, but not in a bad way. The coils of steam curled gently into the air of the dimly lit living room, the tea as of yet untasted, but Harry didn't mind. Simply holding the warmth felt good, in a way, even if it also felt a little painful. He was colder than he'd realised, though the weight of the faux minx blanket around his shoulders, the Warming Charm that he could feel working its magic, eased it a little bit.

Across from him, Draco sat with his own cup, staring blankly at the rising steam though with the blankness of not really seeing it. He slumped back in his seat, deflated and neglecting the poise that Harry had always known him to possess. He was still the same Draco, but it was a version of him that Harry had never seen before. In a way, it was oddly reminiscent of the apartment Harry found himself in.

The lines of the kitchen were sleek and refined, but minimalistic and not without a degree of wear and tear. The living room was polished, but it was a little small, a little cluttered, and there was a mug sitting atop a coaster on the coffee table, a stack of papers slightly scattered beside it, a remote for a boxy television looking on the brink of sliding off the corner.

The dining table was a little scratched and scuffed at the edges, despite the heavy, respectable wood of its make. The chair Harry sat in had squeaked slightly when he sat down. The blinds didn't quite fit the window, there was a hint of weathering to the glass, and throughout the conjoined rooms that Harry could see from where he sat were elements of life, of disrepair, of carelessness that seemed to suit the version of Draco that sat across from him.

Harry had looked with vague curiosity, absorbing it all in a sweeping glance when Draco had flicked one of the overhead lights on, but he'd let his interest dissipate. This was Draco's space, and prying, even when he'd been effectively invited inside by being Apparated into the midst of it, didn't feel right. Instead, Harry fixed his gaze upon an inexplicable little pile of ash on his side of the table. He'd been staring at that ash for a long time after he'd retreated from staring at Draco's blank face.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Harry didn't know what time it was; he knew it was late, and a part of him worried that he should be in bed if he wanted to look halfway presentable for the photoshoot lined up for the next day, but the other half overwhelmed his concerns with resigned acceptance. Besides, Draco was with him. Draco was the one who would take the photos, who would edit them, and would understand the meaning behind the blemishes that he touched up. There was that small mercy, at least.

Even so, Harry wasn't sure how he felt about it. Shame and regret welled within him once more at the very thought, and he sunk a little further into his chair in a fruitless effort to escape from it. He didn't know what Draco had been doing at _The Corner_ , didn't know why he'd been in the back rooms, but he regretted it. He hadn't wanted… he hadn't wanted Draco to…

"How long has it been going on for?"

Blinking, Harry shook himself from his stupor and dragged his gaze from the little pile of ash. Draco himself hadn't glanced up from his mug, though from the glassiness of his eyes as they reflected the dimmed light, he barely saw the empty table he'd shifted his attention to.

"How long as what been going on for?" Harry asked, though he already knew entirely too well what Draco referred to.

"Ipetsky," Draco said. "You and him. How long?"

Harry lowered his gaze to his tea. He had to swallow past a thick lump in his throat to reply. "A couple of years."

"A couple of years."

"Mm."

Flickering his gaze up briefly, Harry saw Draco's lips thin. "A couple of years being since he first started shooting you."

Harry nodded.

Though Draco didn't glance towards him, he replied as though he'd seen the gesture. "And it's been consistent."

"Relatively."

"Do you care for him?"

Harry didn't know why Draco asked. The questions might have been construed as intrusive, and Harry thought that quite a few people might even consider them too much, but he didn't care. With the shame, the inexplicable apology he felt towards Draco – for walking in on him? For having to see what he'd seen? – Harry felt as though he owed it to him.

"I… care for him," Harry said slowly, because it wasn't exactly untrue.

"Then you're lovers?"

Harry bit the inside of his lip. He fidgeted with the mug in his hands for a moment, his semi-scalded fingers tingling with renewed movement. "I wouldn't say lovers, exactly."

"You're not exclusive, then?"

"I'm not."

"Does Ipetsky know?"

Harry shook his head. That much he was sure of. He wasn't quite sure what he and Sammy were to one another, but they weren't lovers. They weren't exclusive. They weren't anything like boyfriends. But even so, he knew Sammy wouldn't like the idea of him sleeping with someone else. Or several someones. Not at all.

This time, Draco seemed to be shaken back from his reminiscing. When Harry lifted his gaze again, the glassiness had retreated from his eyes to he replaced by the smallest of frowns that didn't even touch his eyebrows. "You're not?"

Harry shook his head again.

"Do you…?"

Draco trailed off before snapping his head sharply to the side. The muscles in his cheek bunched again, visibly distending the angular line of his jaw. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before speaking in a low, fast voice.

"I know how it is. With photographers and models. I know it happens so often it's almost commonplace, even though it bloody well shouldn't be. I know this, but I'm not okay with it. I've never –" He cut himself off briefly with a huff before continuing at an even faster place. "I've never condoned it, and I've certainly never practiced it myself. Sexual relationships should be reserved for the bedroom, as something between caring partners, but on top of that, the obligatory nature of such a relationship makes it… it makes it wrong."

Harry blinked. He stared at Draco, the mug in his hands all but forgotten. Any urge to speak that he may have had was overridden by Draco's continuation as he began fiddling with his own mug, turning it in rapid circles but never quite lifting it from the table.

"Ipetsky is known to be an affable enough photographer, and he's good at what he does. Very good. Good enough to get away with certain indiscretions." The scraping of ceramic on wood was a hollow discordance to Draco's words, consistent and hollow. "No one would question him if he chose to act in less that reputable ways. No one would pull him up on it, either. That happens all too often with independent photographers; they have no leash. I would expect that most – most models, or subordinates, or – or apprentices would feel as though they had to…"

He trailed off, but the words didn't seem to be lost to nothingness. If anything, the detached blankness that Draco had fallen into in his silence appeared to have been wiped away and replaced with agitation that left him physically twitching in his seat. He fidgeted so violently with his mug that Harry was surprised tea hadn't already spilt across the table.

Or he would have been surprised. Tea was very far from his mind at that moment, and Harry had disregarded his own, dropping his hands into his lap. His shoulders curled, hitching further and further with every word Draco uttered. It wasn't because he was sad for the accusations, or that Draco was making them. It was because they were true.

"You think I've been forced into a physical relationship with him," Harry said dully.

Draco stopped his fiddling, the mug's scraping silenced. He didn't need to answer.

"You think that, in my immaturity and ignorance as a younger model, Ipetsky led me on."

No reply. Or, at least, nothing verbal.

"You think I can't get out of the situation, even if I want to. And that he's likely still forcing me. And that I'm practically helpless putty in his hands who can't step off the boat because it's already left the dock and I've got nowhere to retreat to –"

"I didn't say that," Draco said hoarsely.

"Well, you probably should." Harry sighed heavily. "It's true."

Draco made a noise. It was somewhere between a grunt and a squeak, a sound Harry had never heard from him before, and he might have been surprised enough to comment upon it had he not felt so utterly defeated. _Laying it out on the table like this… It really does seem pathetic._

"I don't love him, if that's what you were thinking. We were friends, maybe still even are a little bit, but I don't…" He heaved another sigh. Propping and elbow onto the table, Harry dropped his forehead into his palm. "I've got myself in a fix and can't get out of it. Not after it's been so long. What am I supposed to do? Tell him no?"

Scoffing at himself, Harry closed his eyes. "The ironic part is that sex with Sammy isn't even that great. I mean, if I had to put him on a scale, he wouldn't even be in my top ten…"

Another strangled grunt uttered from Draco, but Harry couldn't bring himself to lift his head. He felt suddenly exhausted, wanted only to sleep, and preferably to crawl out of Draco's line of sight. Shame and regret had settled upon him in such a thick lather of dirtiness that Harry almost wanted to scrub himself raw in an attempt to be rid of it. Draco was… kind of pure. In a way, despite their haphazard childhood and the trauma he'd been through, Harry simply couldn't associate Draco with the word of sex, drugs, and indulgence he'd been exposed to over the years. It didn't fit. It didn't click at all.

 _Draco shouldn't have had to see that. He shouldn't have had to know._

"You're wrong."

Opening his eyes, Harry stared down at the table directly before him. "About what?"

"Even if it has been a long time. Even if you feel like you can't get out of it and you can't say no – you're wrong."

 _No_ , Harry thought, closing his eyes again. _You just don't understand._

"I get it."

 _No, you don't._

"When you feel like you've gotten caught up in something and it's become so tangled and messy that you can't even find the door that leads out, let alone step through it."

 _That's because there is no door._

"But you can. Even when it seems like you don't, you have a right to abandon a situation that's hurting you. Take it from one who knows and didn't take the offered hand extended to them."

With a start, Harry abruptly realised. He almost laughed at himself, almost kicked himself, for his oversight. Of course, Draco was talking about himself. About the war. About his inability to climb free of his ensnared and reluctant allegiance with Voldemort. In a way, it was reflective; Draco had been locked in a situation that had indeed hurt him, that had been a heinous danger to him, and that he'd longed to be free of. Perhaps he did know just a little bit. But the even bigger part…

"This is different," Harry said quietly.

Draco's mug thudded as though he all but slammed it onto the table. "How so?"

"Because you didn't choose to be a Death Eater, Draco. It was forced upon you."

"And your situation with Ipetsky wasn't?"

The harshness had returned to Draco's voice, grating enough that Harry raised his gaze from where it had locked upon a particularly pale pockmark on the table. He peered across the table at Draco where he'd straightened in his seat, his shoulders tight and face just as much. The grasp around his mug looked fierce enough to shatter the porcelain.

"No," Harry said quietly. "It wasn't."

"Because –"

"Because I chose it. You can't go back on your decisions, Draco. Not when the other people involved might get hurt."

"Even if you're being hurt by remaining?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but let it close. He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to utter the simple 'yes' that teetered on the edge of his tongue. He knew that Draco heard it even without voicing it.

Draco's eyes darkened first. Hooding, lowering, he glanced to the side, and that simple redirection hurt more than Harry had expected it to. Then Draco's shoulders slumped, and his hands loosened form their hold, slipping from his mug off the table and into his lap. He rocked back into his chair again, sighed, and then shook his head just a little.

"You know," he murmured in a voice so quiet it could have been more to himself than to Harry, "I never knew you were such a goddamn self-sacrificing martyr back in school. If I had…"

Harry stared at him silently. The shame was still there, the regret as thick as ever, and the urge to apologise once more welled in the back of Harry's throat like a choking weight. But he didn't speak, and when Draco finally turned back towards him, it was a struggle to hold his gaze.

"Maybe I should have realised," Draco said. "Maybe I really should have." He uttered a harsh little laugh and shook his head. "You know, Harry, with every single one of these things you do, you make it harder and harder for me."

"Sorry," slipped out before Harry could help himself, before he even really registered that he had no idea what Draco was talking about.

Draco was scoffed again. "Don't be," he said, rising to his feet. Then he rounded the table and, quite inexplicably, rested his hand briefly upon Harry's shoulder. There was no demand to the touch, no weight other than the heaviness of Draco's fingers that curled just slightly, comfortably. Then it was gone, and Draco was leaving the room and Harry, staring in confusion, in his wake.

Harry didn't know what that touch meant. Just as he didn't know what Draco meant in that he 'made it harder' for him. He didn't quite understand why Draco had spoken as he had, or laughed without humour the way he did, or why he proceeded to make up his own bed and gesture Harry into it before Transfiguring his couch into a pseudo mimic and climbing into it himself.

Harry didn't really understand Draco. Why he'd been at the club. Why he'd asked those questions in particular. Why he'd cared enough to Apparate Harry away from it all and to his very own apartment. He was still thinking that as he rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow and fell to sleep to the scent of Draco on its cover.

* * *

 _The first time hurt. It hurt a lot._

 _The second time almost as much. Harry remembered that hurt; that ache and burn, the way his stomach seemed to rise up his throat, into his gorge, the way he couldn't breathe. He remembered it just as he remembered Sammy's murmured "it's okay," and "just bear with it," and "you'll get used to it, then it'll feel good. I promise"._

 _Harry had believed him. How could he not? It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway. He'd ultimately chosen to follow Sammy's lead, and it wasn't like he could back out after he'd made his decision, even if it hurt. Lots of things hurt. Sometimes they just had to be weathered before they got better._

 _Which it did. It did get better. And Sammy had been right; sometimes it still hurt a bit, but it felt good. Good enough that Harry almost didn't mind spending the night with Sammy._

 _Except that Samuel Ipetsky was insistent. And he smiled a lot, but not when Harry told him "maybe not tonight". And he'd shot a stunning spell at the back of a man in a club when he'd been speaking to Harry without Harry even realising Sammy was in their company._

 _Sammy was a bright person. He was kind, mostly. He was good company most of the time. But sex with him hurt as Harry had discovered wasn't necessarily a component of sex between men when done right. He was a little too insistent, and when he did insist, Harry couldn't say no. He didn't think he was allowed to._

 _Sammy was a good person, and he was Harry's friend. He was probably more than that, too. But sometimes, Harry wasn't sure that he even liked him, let alone enjoyed sleeping with him. Not that it really mattered; ultimately, Harry had made his choice, and he'd learnt enough about the world to know there was no turning back from the decisions he'd made._

* * *

Harry remembered when getting his makeup done – or getting makeup put upon him at all – had been like a strange experience. When it had felt wrong, because he'd been raised in a household where not only did his aunt Petunia were minimalistic and classic styles but the notion of a man wearing makeup at all would have equated to the incarnation of absolute sin.

Harry hadn't felt uncomfortable with the process in a long time. In many ways, when Von took to him with a range of brushes and powders, dabbing, and adjusting, and layering with only a briefly worded "eyes" to indicate his direction to close them or "chin up" to do so, it had become one of the most relaxing parts to Harry's day. He didn't have do think. He didn't have to _do_.

"You alright?"

Dragging himself back to the present, Harry trained his gaze upon Von's reflection in the vanity mirror before him. He was frowning down at a pallet in his hand, a thin brush in the other that he dipped into colour and honed with a practiced twirl to rid it of excess paint. Feeling Harry's attention, he glanced at him briefly, quirking an eyebrow in repeated question.

Harry smiled slightly. Just slightly, and nothing more, for Von didn't really need more than that. He grunted as he wandered slowly around Harry's shoulder, bending over him to apply the hint of colour to his lips. "You look tired," he murmured.

"Mm," Harry hummed by way of reply.

"Late night."

"Mm."

"How's Ipetsky?"

Harry fought the brief urge to reach towards his pocket where he'd stuffed his phone that morning. He knew it was blank of any messages. He knew that Sammy hadn't attempted to contact him again. With all likelihood, he'd Apparated about as far away as he could the previous night. Maybe he'd already taken a spontaneous portkey back to Germany by now. He'd done just that the only other time they'd been literally caught in the act; ducking for cover and disappearing from the potential line of fire was Sammy's way.

Shrugging a shoulder, Harry affected neutrality and unconcerned. Von's frown deepened with more than his usual concentration. He squinted slightly as he drew back from Harry's face, regarding the work he'd made of it with a shrewd eye.

"He didn't stick around yesterday evening, then?"

Harry shook his head.

"I thought you went out to a club."

Another shrug.

Von harrumphed. He wasn't nosy as the gossipmonger that he sometimes became suggested of him; Harry knew that much. When it came to his work, both as a bodyguard and a makeup artist, Von was as dedicated as they came. He'd only allowed Harry the freedom of being out of his sight most evenings because Harry had submitted to being charmed with an activator that announced his 'distress' should he experience it.

Von hadn't rushed to Harry's aid at such a distress call in a long time, so that was a good thing. That, or Harry was getting better at suppressing such a call.

No more questions were asked after that. Von returned to his work, and when he finished, he gestured absently to the clothes hanging on the trolley at his side. "You've still got about twenty minutes," he said. "Take it easy and I'll see you in the studio?"

Harry nodded and watched Von's reflection as he skirted around him once more and took himself to a distance. Not far, still in sight as he almost always was at work, but enough to give Harry a moment of relative privacy – or at least as much as could be given in the tight confines of the dressing room.

For a moment, Harry simply sat. He was tired; that much Von had correctly assumed. He felt deflated after the previous night, and not only because of Sammy's company and subsequent sudden disappearance. Staying at Draco's had been… strange. And strangely tiring in itself, despite that Harry had slept for nearly a whole six hours.

The bed was too comfortable. It smelt too much like Draco.

The apartment was too quiet, and calm, and safe. It rung too much of Draco, too.

The minimal breakfast the next morning – Draco hadn't asked as Harry had half expected him to but simply accepted the scarcity – and the idle conversation that hadn't really been conversation was kind of nice nonetheless. When they'd left, Harry to head for a quick run to the gym and Draco to get to the studio early, Draco had paused in step and stared at him for a long moment, his gaze unfathomable but somehow saying so much.

Then he'd turned and walked away, leaving Harry to think of just what that stare and everything that had preceded it had meant for the rest of the morning.

Staring at the mirror before him, he only detachedly registered his own face. The exaggerated eyeliner, a stylistic choice to reflect the war, and the dark undertones. That Harry really did look a little tired but that it didn't detract from the overall effect. If anything, it sort of enhanced it. Harry had grown to take pride in Von's work – more his work than the foundational canvas he worked upon – and he appreciated the skill with which he adapted his art. But not that day. That day, Harry was… a little lost.

He was still sitting, still detached, when Draco appeared behind him. Even lost in thought as he was, Harry knew it was him. Whether it was the not-quite-touching proximity that didn't demand a single thing, the almost respectful wait of his silence, or even the smell of him, a lingering hint of what Harry had fallen asleep to the previous night, Harry wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it drew him from his thoughts enough to really look at the mirror before him and meet Draco's in the reflection.

How Draco looked at him – Harry had thought he understood. He understood little bits of it; the contemplation, the consideration, the curiosity, and also the hint of wariness. The faint hint of attraction, even, something that Harry saw a lot of but never quite so reigned in as Draco appeared, and enough that Harry knew he wouldn't act upon it. It was how he'd looked at Harry for weeks.

Except that it was different now. Just a little. Almost unexpectedly, what added to the wealth of colours in his stare wasn't pity. It wasn't even really sympathy, nor compassion, but something else. Something Harry couldn't understand and something that pervaded even through the touch of anger that still inexplicably lingered.

Just as Harry felt the urge to speak, just as he opened his mouth to do so, Draco beat him to it. "Are you alright?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"After last night." Draco spoke quietly enough that eavesdroppers wouldn't be able to catch a word without the use of magic, but Harry heard him nonetheless. "Are you alright?"

"Why… wouldn't I be?"

Draco's lips thinned. He did that, Harry had noticed. It always seemed to happen when he was angry, or disapproving, or not quite satisfied with how a shot had turned out. Harry had seen it a number of times when he'd caught sight of Draco studying his prints spread on the table alongside the dressing room, bowing over them with hands steepled on either side of the spread and utterly focused.

He didn't quite know what it meant that Draco regarded him like that, too.

"You'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?" he said, a question more than a blatant demand. "You'll tell me if something I ask of you isn't to your liking, or makes you feel discomforted in any way?"

The instinct to deny the need for such an offer welled immediately, because of course Harry would do what he was told. He was a model, and Draco was his photographer. What kind of model would he be if he didn't do what was directed of him?

He would have asked just that, except that Draco's eyes tightened slightly. It was barely noticeable, but something about it… something in his expression seemed somehow pleading.

Harry didn't speak in reply. He only turned in his seat to meet Draco's gaze directly for a long moment before, slowly, with a slight frown of his own, he nodded. That tightness eased just a little, the corner of Draco's lips tilting in what wasn't quite a smile. Then he nodded too, turned on his heel, and strode back through the dressing room to his office corner. Harry was left to stare after him and wonder, not for the first time in his life, just what drove Draco Malfoy to do what he did. He didn't think he'd ever rightly know.


	12. Chapter 12

WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of violence. If you find these kinds of descriptions triggering, please be wary and consider the second half of this chapter with caution.

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

Draco stared down at the letter untouched on the table before him. He no longer saw the words; they'd blurred together into a smudge of slanted ink after nearly ten minutes of his staring. Yet even without being able to discern the individual words, the blow they'd struck still resounded.

For perhaps the first time, Draco wished it had been a Howler. At least that way he wouldn't have to look at the letter anymore where it sat in all of its eloquence and succinctness after picking him apart. This one… This one was different.

His shots. The flaws that he'd seen himself. The moments in his early career that he looked back upon with exasperation that he hadn't seen the incorrectness of his formulation, his edits, his amateur use of colour that even at the time hadn't looked quite right. The savage words had hyper-focused upon the details, and the intelligence behind the words stung in a way that the abuse screamed by other letters hadn't.

All the same, the writer had still clearly written to attack. That much was apparent. They'd simply done it a little bit smarter than Draco was used to.

His work wasn't good enough. He didn't deserve his position. He didn't deserve to have landed such an opportunity as photographing the 'god's gift that is Harry Potter', and there were countless others who could have, would have, done far better. Draco knew that, but he didn't need full-page examples of specific reasons why those photographers were a better choice than he was. Why they would have been better and the proof that they were.

That was it. That was the worst part. The letter writer made sense. Just as it made sense when it had flatly and cruelly torn him apart for his past actions as a Death Eater. The writer had done their research, and it was almost eerie.

Raising his tea to his lips, Draco paused before taking a sip. His breakfast sat heavily in his stomach, a sodden lump that didn't quite smother the sickly bubble of nausea that hissed and sizzled in his gut. Lowering his cup, Draco picked up his wand instead and pressed the tip to the edge of the letter. He paused for a moment, the spell on his lips, and hated himself just a little for the thought that crossed through his mind.

 _Erasing the evidence doesn't erase that truth of the words_.

Draco swallowed. It didn't. It wouldn't change anything. And yet…

 _"_ _Incendio."_

His wand spat a candle's worth of flame at the letter, and it immediately smoked, crackled, and curled upon itself in a fit of burning. Draco didn't watch it. Rising from his seat, he crossed to the kitchen and, as he had been doing for nearly a whole week, he rinsed and scrubbed his cup, his plate, and his cutlery manually. It had become something of a habit, and Draco would be a fool to overlook the reason for his doing so.

 _Just because he did it doesn't mean that I have an obligation to use my hands instead of magic,_ Draco thought, even as he dipped his fingers into the soapy water and scrubbed his plate clean. He knew he didn't have to, but in just a week, things had changed. And in spite of what had caused it and the circumstances of how Harry had happened upon sleeping in his flat and his own bed the week before, Draco couldn't help but cling to the memory. Even something as trivial as watching as Harry wordlessly cleaned his own barely touched breakfast bowl before scooping Draco's out from before him and doing the same.

He'd smiled. Just slightly, barely perceptibly, but it was the most natural smile Draco had seen from him. Ever. A little quiet, a little sad, maybe a little thankful, and utterly real. Draco had never wanted to capture a moment with his camera more than then.

In the face of the letter and the truths it rightly accused him of, that memory, rising in his mind like a static image – not a moving one but a Muggle one – gave Draco a lifeline to cling onto. It had in each instance that vengeful, hateful thoughts had manifested in Draco's mind for the past week – about Ipetsky, about the hatred flung upon him for his photography, about the glares and scowls and muttered curses shot his way as he passed down a hallway at _Syren_ or even in his visits back to Dimitri and Building Eight. It helped him breathe.

 _I'm done for,_ Draco thought to himself with a small smile of his own as he stacked his plate atop the drainer and flicked suds off his fingers. _I don't know how I fell so hard or even when, but I'm definitely done for._

Strangely enough, Draco found he didn't really mind.

The trip to work was dull and uneventful. The rocking of the bus was lulling, but the packed bodies, the smell of those bodies, the noise of chatter and the contagion of yawns and early morning grumbles, removed any calming effects it might have had. Draco climbed off the bus as it huffed and heaved, strode the short distance towards _Syren_ , and paused just before entering the building. He stared up at its sleek façade, and for a moment was struck.

Two more days. Including that day, he had only two more obligatory days within _Syren's_ walls. Or at least for this interview set. Should any more follow it might be a different story, but for this one…

Draco wasn't sure how he felt about that. Relieved, he supposed; _Syren_ was bigger than Building Eight, and it had less routes to escape the more prevalent hatred that seemed to emanate from the walls. But by the same token, finishing meant ending what little time he had with Harry. Draco didn't want that. He didn't want it at all. He simply didn't know how to avoid the inevitable.

 _It's not like I can tell him,_ he told himself just as he had countless times before. _It's not like, after what I've seen and what I understand of him, I can tell him that I want him._ Lowering his gaze, Draco tucked his chin and started up the steps into the foyer. A heavy weight sat with him just as it had for days, making his feet just a little heavier than they should have been; he couldn't tell Harry, because in such a short time, Draco had come to understood how Harry would respond. He knew Harry would take it as an obligation, that he'd accept Draco because acceptance of duty for someone else, regardless of what that duty was, was what he did.

Draco didn't want that. He didn't want it so badly it hurt.

A cluster of bodies stood like sentinels before the elevator, and Draco silently joined their midst. No one spoke. Someone sniffed, another yawned, a woman absently swung her briefcase with a little _pat-pat-pat_ against her leg. They filed like water seeping through a delta when the elevator pinged open, and Draco duly followed.

Only to pause before stepping aboard. A woman with a flat expression, her eyes heavily hooded but her stare sharp, pinned him and froze him in place. She was vaguely familiar, he thought, and he'd likely seen her before about the building, but never spoken to him. She hadn't approached him – yet.

The woman at her side stared at Draco with a scowl rapidly growing upon her face. The man alongside her glanced at her sidelong before eyeing Draco with thinly veiled contempt. In all likelihood, Draco was assuming the degree of their hatred for him – he was fairly sure that first woman was a Muggle, anyway – but he abruptly decided he'd had enough. Not today. He couldn't face it today.

Turning from the elevator, he took himself instead to the narrow doorway leading to the fire escape and, closing the door behind him with a hollow _boom_ , started up the industrial steps with sluggish efficiency.

It was barely morning and it was already a long day.

It wasn't cold that morning, not in the least, but Draco felt himself chilled by the lingering effects of the letter. By the weight of the finality of the interviews, too, and even by the lonely emptiness of the concrete stairwell as he wound back and forth up the flights.

It wasn't looking to be a good day so far, and a part of Draco, the immature part of him that still clung to the entitled and admittedly spoilt child he'd once been, urged him to say to hell with it. To just go home. To leave the world for the day to sort itself out, because he couldn't face it. Draco knew he wouldn't, but the thought was unerringly tempting.

He'd reached the tenth floor landing and paused to readjust the bag slung over his shoulder when his phone rang. Closing his eyes briefly – _not today. Could you all just leave me the fuck alone?_ – Draco heaved a sigh that echoed throughout the emptiness surrounding him and drew it from his pocket.

"Hello?" he asked of an unknown number.

 _"_ _Draco Malfoy?"_ a clipped, female voice replied _. "Yes, hello. I'm calling on behalf of Madame Clementine. How are you?"_

Draco blinked. The rapid-fire French struck him unexpectedly, but it wasn't what made him pause. Madame Clementine – or Clementine Holm, as she was legally known – was a Swiss designer and creative director by turns that was known for her incredibly humble attitude that bellied her prestige. Draco had never met her, but he'd heard enough of her that he was rendered momentarily speechless, distracted from his bout of melancholy.

"Yes,' he finally managed. "Yes, I'm well. And yourself?"

 _"_ _Very well, thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Have you a moment? If you've the time, I wish to discuss an offer that Madame wishes to pose to you…"_

The woman on the other end of the line continued, and though Draco listened, heard, and couldn't help but be slightly stunned for just what was being presented, another part of him hung in breathless, torn suspension.

A job.

A job, and likely in Switzerland as Madame Clementine preferred to host her photo shoots.

A job that would take him away from London, from England, and from the hatred and the glaring and the letters that chased him every day.

A job that would, ultimately, take him away from Harry.

In such a short time, Draco have come to realise just how much he didn't want that. After what had happened with Ipetsky, what he'd seen, what had followed, the way the photoshoot the next day had felt so distinctly different… How could Draco not think otherwise?

 _"…_ _if you'd care to, Mr. Malfoy,"_ the voice said, prim and efficient as she had the entire conversation. _"Your thoughts?"_

Draco swallowed. He licked his lips. Readjusting his phone against his ear, he took a deep breath and began the trudging climb up the remaining steps. "It seems like a wonderful opportunity. If Madame Clementine wishes to discuss this further, then I would be honoured to arrange a call or meeting to..."

* * *

 **"** **It's so strange hearing of your early days, given who you are and what you've become. Some of your stories certainly makes the life of a model seem less glamorous."**

"Oh, it's glamourous enough, I suppose. Just not as much as most people think."

 **"** **I'll say. There go any plans I might have had."**

"Did you have plans? Being a journalist seems to suit you so well, Pansy. You've got a knack for it, you know. I sure as hell wouldn't be able to do what you do."

 **"** **I… Thank you. I think."**

"You're welcome."

 **"** **Ahem. Yes. Well. Back on track. Since you've climbed into such a prominent position – over the years, is there any standout moments? Anything truly wonderful or, alternatively, utterly horrifying that you'd care to share?"**

"Utterly horrifying? Who'd want to hear about that?"

 **"** **Oh, I'm sure you'd be surprised."**

"You know, probably not, actually."

 **"** **No?"**

"People have asked me some pretty interesting questions in interviews before."

 **"** **Ah, yes, of course. I almost have to remind myself sometimes that you'd made something of a name for yourself even before you grew into the accomplished model that you are."**

"Funnily enough, I think a lot of people would be fairly horrified to hear you say that."

 **"** **That doesn't surprise me. But back to my question: any moments?"**

"Any really good moments…"

 **"** **Or appalling. Either-or."**

"I'm sensing you're hoping more for the bad than the good."

 **"** **What can I say? I live to give the people what they want."**

"I'm sure. Look, honestly, I've been really lucky. I know there's a lot of bad stories that go around, but I've had a pretty easy run of it. My agent is fantastic, my stylist is phenomenal, and I'd consider both of them my friends as much as they are my colleagues, you know?"

 **"** **That certainly is lucky."**

"Yeah. I mean, there's always long days, and sometimes you don't quite click with a photographer, but –"

 **"** **Have you?"**

"Have I what?"

 **"** **Ever not clicked with a photographer?"**

"Oh. Well, not really. Some I just find I get along with some a little better than others."

 **"** **Care to name names?"**

"The good or the not so good?"

 **"** **The good or the bad."**

"You mean 'not so good'."

 **"** **Which is essentially the same thing."**

"Not really."

 **"** **We're getting off track. Can you remember your first?"**

"My first photographer? God, that's a while back. I can't really remember the absolute first – I remember the day, but the details were all a bit of a blur. Probably the first big photographer I worked with was Samuel Ipetsky, though."

 **"** **Ipetsky. Yes, of course. I remember seeing the product of that shoot. It was in** ** _Monochrome_** **, wasn't it? You had a double spread."**

"Yeah. You really do have a good memory."

 **"** **How did you find working with Ipetsky?"**

"Fine. I mean, he was pretty professional, but friendly. He's really good at what he does."

" **Professional**?"

"Yes."

 **"** **Is he really?"**

"What do you mean by that?"

 **"…** **nothing. Nothing at all. Now, any other stand outs?"**

"There's plenty of standouts, but I'd be here all day if I told you them all."

 **"** **Then at the moment? Which stands foremost in your mind?"**

"To be honest? Draco Malfoy."

 **"** **Ha. Of course. And why is that?"**

"Because he'd incredibly good at what he does. He doesn't demand but makes suggestions, and he'd very accommodating of any discomfort I might feel, which is something you don't see a lot of, unfortunately."

 **"** **Is he really?"**

"And he's amicable. A good person to talk to."

 **"** **Really?"**

"And that's to say nothing of his work. Even in his earlier pieces, some of the shots that didn't make it into the more prominent magazines or exhibitions – I know so little about photography itself, despite being a model, that I'd do him a disservice to try and describe it, but he's got some really beautiful work."

 **"** **How interesting…"**

"What? What is?"

 **"** **Nothing. Nothing at all. Now, moving on – where can you see yourself headed in the future, Harry? You've made a name for yourself and not just in the industry. Some might say you've got free rein to go wherever you choose."**

"Where… do I want to go?"

 **"** **Yes. With your career. With life. With anything."**

"I… I don't really know."

 **"** **You don't know?"**

"I guess I haven't thought about it."

 **"** **Then where would you like to go? Any photographers you'd like to work with in particular? Any magazines jump out to you, or far off fashion hubs of the world you'd like to visit? A particular organisation you'd ideally like to be the posterchild for, perhaps?"**

"Not particularly. I just…"

 **"** **Yes?"**

"I don't really care. I'll go wherever. Wherever I'm asked to go or I'm needed, I suppose."

 **"…** **That's…"**

"What?"

 **"** **Nothing, Harry. Nothing at all."**

"You're free."

* * *

Draco slowed in step, turning towards where Pansy strode towards him, her high shoes clacking on the marble floor of the largely empty foyer. Even after a whole day interviewing she appeared composed, freshly groomed as though she'd just stepped out of the bathroom after gussying up. Most likely she actually had, knowing Pansy as Draco did.

"Not quite," he said, hitching his bag up on his shoulder just a little higher. "I'm still coming in tomorrow, too."

"Of course," Pansy said with a nod. "The photoshoot. How do you feel about that?"

"About?"

"The final shoot. With Harry."

Draco didn't let Pansy's words get to him. He was rather good at denying them access after a lifelong friendship, and they slid off of him without leaving a stain. "What about it?"

Pansy regarded him flatly. Then she sighed loudly enough that, despite the clatter of footsteps of the few departing workers that passed them and the click and whisper of the doors opening and closing, it actually echoed slightly throughout the room.

"You know, Draco," she said, "I feel I would be remiss as a friend if I didn't say –"

"Don't."

Pansy scowled. She folded her arms across her chest with a huff. "You don't have to be so oblivious with me. I'm not ignorant of the situation. I can see well enough how you feel."

"Can you really?" Draco replied dryly.

"You like him."

"Very astute of you."

"I mean really like him. More than you ever did Daphne, and you were with her for nearly a whole year. So, what makes him different?"

Draco didn't reply immediately. It struck him a little, Pansy's words, and surprisingly, because they weren't supposed to. But her suggestion?

Daphne was the only person he'd ever dated. Draco knew that whispers and speculations had existed in his school days, most prominently with reference to Pansy herself, but it had only ever been Daphne. Then even that had ended when things became just a little too awkward for the both of them.

"I think it's probably better if we break if off," Daphne had told him matter-of-factly, just as she always spoke of the fundamentals of their relationship. Always clinical, she was. "It's a little strange dating you when it feels like my little sister has a bigger crush on you than I ever did."

That had been awkward on a whole new level, but Draco hadn't even had the chance to reply before Daphne had continued.

"And besides, you don't like me. Not really. Let's face it, Draco, even the sex has become a bit lack-lustre these days."

And it ended. Just like that, it was over. Then the war had come, the war had gone, and the aftermath of that war had been one trial after another. Draco hadn't the time or the energy to pursue any kind of long-term romantic involvement. No inclination, either. Not until Harry.

Pansy was probably right. She often was about such things, and even more so when those things were based predominantly upon observation. Pansy had an eye like a hawk.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Shaken from his thoughts, Draco watched but barely saw a pair of woman stalk past him, caught in the throes of avid but muted conversation. He shook his head. "No. Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Pansy."

"Draco."

Draco sighed through his teeth. For a brief moment he closed his eyes, gathering himself before he returned his attention to her. "I'm sure he's had his fair share of suitors approaching him for every reason and with every request under the sun. I don't want to be just another one of them."

Pansy eyed him, lips pursing. "Even if you truly care for him? Which, I'll admit, took me a little by surprise when I realised just how much you did, but I can't say I'm shocked given you've always –"

"Pansy."

She redirected instantly without missing a beat. "He likes you," she said. "You heard it today. He does."

Draco stared at her.

"He wouldn't have said it in front of a camera, let alone before you directly, if he didn't mean it. Surely."

Draco blinked.

"Are you really going to let this opportunity slide?"

It wasn't a question to Draco. Of course he would. He had to, and it wasn't only because Harry was Harry Potter and Draco was himself. It wasn't because Harry was the Boy Who Lived and Draco had been a Death Eater. It wasn't because they were model and photographer either, or because Draco had been offered a job overseas only that morning that he knew he should take. It was because…

"I don't want to force him if he doesn't really want it himself," Draco murmured, gaze lowering to the swirls of the marble floor. "I don't want to be just another obligation to him. Not like everyone and everything else."

Pansy was silent. She stayed silent for such a long moment that Draco eventually glanced up towards her. She was watching him unblinkingly, her lips slightly downturned, and seemingly oblivious to the home-goers that skirted around them intermittently. Draco knew she noticed, but she didn't spare them an inkling of her attention.

"You've really changed," Pansy said slowly. Shaking her head slightly, she took a half step towards him. "Of course you have, and not just in this, but Draco – I never expected this of you."

Draco shrugged with a quirk of his lips rather than his shoulders. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know. We rarely change in the most significant ways because we want to."

"Very true."

"I –" Pansy paused, cutting herself off. Her lips still parted, Draco saw her pick at her teeth with her tongue as though pondering continuation before doing so. "I wish it was otherwise, Draco. For you. I really do. It's a difficult situation you've found yourself in, but," raising a hand, she pressed it against the side of his head in a brief, surprisingly affectionate pat, "I wish you all the best."

Draco could only stare at her as she took a step backwards from him. With a glance over her shoulder towards the elevators, Pansy hummed thoughtfully. "He's still upstairs, you know. Talking to someone, I think. Maybe you could at least go and wish him goodnight? I know you want to."

Then she was off, clicking her way across the foyer and striding through the doors at the end of the room on the tail of a departing man. Draco stared after her for a moment, glanced back towards the elevators, then turned and followed in her footsteps.

Did he want to go back upstairs? Yes. Of course he did.

Did what Harry had said in the interview that day, words that seemed in direct response to those Draco had read in a brutal letter that morning, hit him so hard he almost couldn't contain the riot of emotions tearing through him? Yes. But he wouldn't act on it.

Draco might want many things, but he wouldn't demand. He wouldn't force. Once upon a time he might have, maybe, but not anymore. Never. Never anymore. Not with Harry.

His head bowed, Draco strode down the steps of _Syren_ and turned onto the street towards the bus stop. He didn't want to, not really, but such a performance for the sake of the _Syren's_ Muggles employees was still a necessary part of the contract he had to fulfil. Only for one more day, but even so. Lost in his thoughts as he was, Draco didn't even realise he was being followed until his shoulder was grabbed and he was hauled into a side alley that was barely more than a crevasse between office buildings.

The man who'd grabbed him – Draco didn't recognise him. He didn't recognise the other man over his shoulder either, planted in the mouth of the alleyway, or the woman who stood at the shoulder of the first, growling a tirade of imprecations and accusation the likes of which Draco had heard too many times. About Death Eaters. About undeserving. About how it would be so much better – for everyone around him, even for himself – if he was just erased permanently.

Draco half expected the punch to his gut, but it still hurt. It still bent him double.

The smack to the side of his head was a little less expected, and it hurt even more. Draco's head rung, his ears echoing the blow, and he tottered sideways.

A hook punch to his waist. A snap of a foot to the side of his knee. Another to his jaw that drove his teeth into his tongue. Draco wasn't sure which one of them forced him to his knees, that had him throwing his hands onto the cement before him to prevent falling further, but it didn't matter. He was down, he knew it wouldn't stop until they were even a little satisfied, and he didn't even hate them for it.

The blows – they were horrible. They burned and bruised and broke, but even so. Horrible, yet in a way utterly warranted.

When they stopped, it was sooner than Draco expected. He wavered on his hands and knees, blinking aside the blurriness clouding his vision, the continued ringing in his head, and swallowing convulsively in a struggle to suppress the urge to vomit. His gut roiled. His fingers stung from where a foot had stomped downwards upon them, grinding them into the ground. His chin felt all but out of dislocated, and the warmth dribbling from his nose stood as testament to the knee he'd taken to his face. Draco heard voices, but in his dizziness he could only cling to the ground to keep himself from falling further. Attempting to discern what they said was beyond him.

He did see when the body when flying past him, however. He saw it soar through the air as though kicked by a pegasus.

A squawk of surprise turned into a shout. A voice that sounded almost apologetic preceded a shriek. Feet scuffed the ground, something like a curse – magical, not simply an angry slur– seemed to snap through the air, and Draco only half bothered to strain his ears to hear the sounds of his attackers' continued company. When the tussle subsided, when nothing but the traffic and the hubbub on the footpath met his ears, his heaved a sigh and slumped back onto his heels. His gaze dragged heavily up to the abandoned opening of the alley.

And froze.

Harry wasn't looking at him. He stood, straight and unmoving, at the end of the alley, his wand jutting from the mouth of an overlong sleeve that swallowed his hand as though pointing accusingly towards the ground. Between his glasses, the hood drawn up around his face, and the scarf muffling his neck despite it surely being warm enough to discard both, he was almost entirely Other to the person he'd presented in the interview, the picturesque version of himself that he offered to the world.

Maybe he might have even been mistaken, might have been overlooked as someone other than Harry Potter, but not to Draco. Draco would recognise that Harry anywhere. If anything, he never wanted to see any other. He never wanted to look away.

Except at that moment. Right then, Draco sorely wished that it wasn't Harry standing before him.

He didn't have time to compose himself. He barely even had the chance to wipe the smear of blood from beneath his nose before Harry was turning towards him.

He paused.

He started towards Draco, heavy boots strangely silent on the cement.

He dropped to his knees before Draco and, wordlessly, raised his wand in askance.

Draco couldn't speak. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to speak before Harry again. Seeing him like this… He knew it wasn't his fault – or at least not that he'd been beaten to a pulp and bloodied mess, even if the reason behind it was justified – but a rising tide of shame and embarrassment welled within him.

"You don't have to," he muttered, absently relieved that his jaw wasn't quite as painful as it could have been. Not broken, then. Not dislocated.

Harry blinked. His lips drew just slightly to the said before he dipped his head just once. "I know." Then he raised his wand and muttered a charm beneath his breath.

It wasn't complex magic. There was nothing in the cleaning, the reknitting of skin, the easing of pain, that was particularly difficult. And yet, if only on the edges of his awareness, Draco was surprised that Harry knew such magic. Maybe he shouldn't be – Harry had been though the war, after all – but he was. He could only stare as Harry peered at him with clinical detachment and worked at Draco's wounds in near silence.

Bruises still blossomed. His skin, reddened and made raw by punches and the scrape of clothing dragged taut, still hurt. And yet with each spell, Draco's notice of his injuries declined. He cared even less. He found himself speaking before he knew what he would say.

"What are you doing here?"

Harry didn't pause in his ministrations. "Healing you," he said simply.

"I meant what are you doing here in the first place."

"I was going home." Harry tipped his head as he regarded Draco's cheek with a slight frown. "I noticed."

 _I noticed_. Just like that. It was so typical of Harry, to notice and immediately step in, that Draco almost laughed. A sound that definitely wasn't a laugh slipped from his lips, and his embarrassment only hitched further.

"You didn't have to step in," he said.

"What kind of a monster would I be if I just walked past?"

"Not a monster," Draco said. "Just doing what everyone else would."

"Then everyone else are monsters."

"No. They're just… hurt. And acting out because of it."

Harry's lips pursed, his frown deepening as he swished his wand before Draco's face. The scummy feeling of drying blood beneath Draco's nose disappeared with it. "You don't get to justify people acting with cruelty in retaliation for a past wrong. An eye for an eye is just a vicious cycle that never has an ending."

"Clearly you've never lost an eye, then," Draco said.

"No," Harry denied him simply. "I have. I've just taken revenge and learnt that it doesn't really help all that much. It's better to just move past it. What better way to spit in the face of your past abusers than to forget them and what they did entirely?"

Draco hurt. He hurt in a plethora of places, and each of those places was throbbing, loudly or quietly, with demands for attention. Yet at Harry's words, as he settled back on his own heels and finally wand lowered his wand, Draco's mind was far elsewhere.

 _That's what you did? To everyone who hurt you? To your relatives, and to Dumbledore, and the world? To Ipetsky?_ Draco wanted to ask but he couldn't, and not only because the humiliation of being so broken and downtrodden before Harry hurt in a way far deeper and more prevailing than the bruises on his skin.

"Maybe so," Draco murmured, lowering his gaze. "But that doesn't mean I can blame them."

"Draco –"

"I'd rather you didn't see," he found himself saying, then almost winced at his own words. Swallowing a little painfully, Draco curled his hands into fists on his knees and continued nonetheless. "I'd rather you didn't see. You… you shouldn't see things like this."

"Why?" Harry asked just as quietly. "So I can pretend it doesn't happen?"

"Ideally."

"Is it a problem if I know that it does?"

"For me?" Draco nodded shortly. "Yes."

Harry didn't reply immediately. He didn't shift in place, and even though Draco kept his eyes downcast in the throes of his shame, he knew Harry watched him. He almost longed to glance up, to meet his eyes that had always caught him in the best and worst way possible, to stare in return, for if there was one thing Draco had accepted with utter ease it was that he loved Harry's eyes. Undeniably.

But he didn't. Not until Harry spoke. "Is it because you find me attractive?"

Draco snapped his chin up so fast he nearly hurt himself. His mouth flopped open, jaw protesting the motion, but he barely noticed. Harry had… he'd just… "What?"

Harry glanced briefly to the side, then over his shoulder. He seemed to slump in place, hands plucking absently at his wand. "I know people are like that. They want to appear a certain way in front of something they find appealing. It's happened before, if you'll believe it. They don't… People don't want to be seen at their lowest when they're trying to appear their most attractive themselves."

Draco swallowed convulsively. Harry had known? For how long?

"I don't care," Harry said, and for a second Draco thought he replied to his thoughts. That he 'didn't care' about what he'd realised of Draco. But then he continued with, "About seeing any of it, I mean. I'd rather… I'd rather know, it that's alright with you. If it doesn't bother you too much, I'd rather help."

The weight of his words meant something. Something big, an explanation that Draco had assumed but never directly heard of him. But in that instant, Draco barely registered the meaning behind those words. He was more focused on –

"You knew?" he said, voice hoarse. "You knew that I…?"

Harry shrugged, his own eyes lowered this time to stare at where his fingers fiddled. "I've seen it before. A lot. Most models do, you know, even if it's not entirely warranted. I think the idea of a model is as appealing as the actual product itself."

 _Product? Appeal? How can he even think that?_

"It's probably got very little to do with how I look or act, or who I am as a person. It's… I'm an idea, you know? Both as a model and as Harry Potter."

 _You're not. You're not just an – an idea, or a – a –_

"After seeing it enough times, you sort of get used to it." Harry's tone became a little rueful. "It becomes almost easy to pick up on sometimes. A lot of people only want one thing. Not all of them, but the way even those people stare? It's the same."

 _Not me_ , Draco thought, and he wanted to grab Harry by his chin and drag his face up to look him directly, to declare loudly and proudly and unwaveringly that it wasn't the same for him. That he knew Harry was attractive, but he'd known that for years. That he wasn't just a model, or the Saviour, but a person, and it was that person beneath it all that Draco found himself caring for so much more deeply than he'd let himself consider. Beneath the makeup and the charms that weren't love potions or spells as some models and actors used but something else – beneath all of that, Draco cared for _him._

 _Because you see me too,_ Draco realised, the snippet of Harry's interview from that day, what he'd said of Draco likely without even knowing the weight of his own words, rising to the forefront of his mind once more. _You see me, and I see you and – and it's not the same. I don't just want –_

"I don't mind, Draco," Harry said, still speaking to his knees. "You can think what you want. You can want what you want. But please don't let that get in the way of me helping you when I can. I can't do much, but in this instance…" He paused, squeezed his wand briefly, before releasing it. His eyes flickered up just briefly, peering at Draco through the layers of his long fringe and his glasses that Harry's makeup artist Von would likely have been horrified to see all but masked his face. "Tell me what I can do."

There wasn't anything. Nothing, really, or nothing more than he'd already done. For Draco, Harry had spoken for him at his trial. In his interviews. To his attackers, both physical and verbal. He'd planted himself between Draco and the world repeatedly, and Draco was only realising just how often he'd done just that.

What more could he do? Nothing. Harry could do nothing more, should have done less, even, but –

"You can come to dinner with me."

Harry blinked. Then he blinked again, a rapid flutter of confusion. "What?"

Draco still hurt. He still shrunk before his humiliation, and he was all too aware that the bruise on his cheek was likely darkening hideously. But he asked anyway. "Only if you want to. If you really want to. Just to dinner and nothing else. Will you?" A pause, and then, "Please?"

Harry's face was settled into a façade of blank confusion. He stared at Draco as though he couldn't understand what he was saying – which wasn't entirely unreasonable. Draco himself could hardly believe what he'd asked.

But incrementally, slowly, Harry's expression softened just a little. Something almost like a smile touched one corner of his lips and he nodded. "Sure, Draco. I'd like that."

Why Draco had asked, he didn't know. In his state, it likely wasn't the wisest of suggestions. But he'd asked, and a tight fist clenched around his chest almost painfully at the agreement in Harry's words. Agreement, not just compliance. That distinction was one that Draco hadn't ever realised he needed.


	13. Chapter 13

WARNING: this chapter, again, contains references to and depictions of eating disorders and eating disorder behaviour. Sorry it it's triggering, but please avoid or read carefully if you find this sort of content discomforting.

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

What was it about Draco that could provoke anger from Harry?

The first time they'd met, he'd rubbed Harry the wrong way. A prejudiced, spoilt prat, he wasn't the sort of person that Harry would ever want for a friend, even as friendless as he was. When they'd met on the train a month later, the impression hadn't been any better; between Draco's blatant arrogance and entitlement and Ron's equally blatant aversion to 'Malfoy', it hadn't been difficult to view Draco in a less than favourable light.

Throughout school, Draco was a git. Harry likely had been a bit too, but that understanding didn't dampen that they hadn't been friends. Far from it, even, and Harry recalled enough of his adolescence clearly enough to know that the very sight of Draco – sneering, scowling, smirking at him, or even blank-faced and distracted – could spark a flame of his anger.

Harry's anger had died. Years ago, as though killed when Voldemort had shot him, whatever had driven Harry towards rage, towards spitting fury or the kind of aggression that demanded an outlet in violence, was simply gone. Harry wasn't so much sad to see it go as a little baffled; there wasn't a yawning emptiness in its wake but rather everything seemed to settle. To soothe.

"You've gotten boring," Ron always joked, always with a friendly jostle on the shoulder to take the sting and the sobering truth out of his words.

"You're a whole heap calmer than you used to be," Ginny said when in a fit of reminiscence. "It's almost weird when I actually sit and think about it."

"It's certainly not a bad thing," Hermione told him, and she did so repeatedly. "There's nothing bad about maturing into being capable of managing your anger, Harry."

Harry knew that. He appreciated Hermione's sentiment, too. But he also knew that she wasn't quite right. Harry hadn't tamed his anger – it simply wasn't there anymore. Not unless Draco sparked it.

Harry wasn't angry at Draco. He hadn't been for years. And yet something about him seemed to trigger the rebirth of what felt very like it. It had almost surprised Harry, almost left him shocked the first time he'd spoken with Draco and something cold, something fierce and hard, swept through him.

 _"_ _I wonder if you'd be so lenient if such a thing happened to another child,"_ Draco had said when he'd spoken of Harry's past weeks before.

Harry didn't think he had a bad upbringing. Or, more correctly, it hadn't been good, but there were many others who had it far worse. He had a roof over his head, and food, and he could go to school. He was mostly left to his own devices so long as he did his chores and followed the rules laid down in the household to the exclusion of Dudley. And if sometimes Vernon raised his voice to shout at him, or Dudley and his friends teased him and chased him, or he was similarly chased by Aunt Marge's dogs, he could live with that. Had lived with it. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. Not nearly.

But the thought of another kid struggling through it and not being able to duck out into another world as Harry had been given the chance to?

That chill, sweeping through him and freezing the pit in his belly, was unlike any anger Harry had really felt before. It wasn't of the kind he was still distantly familiar with. It was… it was…

Draco's fault. Because Draco was the one that provoked it.

That same flush of chilling not-quite anger cascaded through Harry when he'd seen Draco being beaten to a pulp. When he'd caught sight of the witch and wizard tearing him bloody not with their wands but with their fists, like primal beasts thirsting for the scent and the taste of blood. Harry hadn't used an aggressive or even defensive spell for a long time, but magic rose at his beck and call instantly and leapt forth.

It was all Draco's fault. Again. And Harry would act just as he had – again – in a heartbeat. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not that he would, but his decisiveness? That was unshakeable.

Walking down the street cluttered with workers hastening home for the day, Harry eyed Draco sidelong. Bruises were blossoming on his face, Harry's charms enough to only dampen the severity rather than erase them entirely. The one on his cheekbone had even broken the skin, leaving a smear of bloody flesh just below his eye.

Draco's nose wasn't broken, but the memory of blood dribbling across his lips wouldn't leave Harry alone. That, and that Draco even then was touching it tentatively as though palpating for further injuries. He caught Harry watching him and dropped his hand.

"Merlin, Harry, if you keep staring at me like that then I'll think the bastards made an even worse mess of me face than it feels like." He smiled slightly, a little smirk, and only the slightest wince suggested it hurt to do so.

Harry didn't reply. They'd been walking for barely ten minutes, yet in just that short a time Draco had made an about face in his attitude. The defeated, crumpled person he'd been, on his knees in the alley and all but cringing as he'd taken the blows without resistance, was gone to be replaced with the calm aloofness that Draco usually adopted. The mussed hair, the wrenched jacket, the sagging disregard for posture, was all erased with careful swipes of hands through hair and fingers tugging lapels.

And that moment – that single moment of stupefaction when Harry had told him that he knew, that he'd noticed, and that he was more than familiar with the way people looked at him – was gone to be replaced by something almost confident yet not quite as arrogant as he used to be.

Those changes weren't unexpected. Harry had seen posturing before. He'd seen what could only be called peacocking in clubs, in studios, and for the benefit of other models as much as for himself. Draco wasn't quite doing the same, but the façade he thrust forward like a placating offering of consolation, as though struggling to distract and posture and present? It wasn't far from it.

"Where are we going?" Harry finally asked instead of addressing Draco's words.

Draco sniffed, briefly touched his nose once more, then abandoned his prodding. "Did you have a preference?"

Harry shook his head, stepping around a pair of businessmen in deep conversation that would have otherwise ploughed through him.

"Would you be averse to eating in a Muggle district?" Draco skirted around a woman talking on a phone himself with the same natural, practiced step Harry had seen in the hallways of _Syren_ countless times. "I'm not necessarily disinclined towards Wizarding areas, but they're somewhat disinclined towards me."

"Somewhat disinclined?" Harry echoed, smiling faintly. It took more than a small struggle.

Draco smirked. "You might have heard; we have something of a rocky past. A tumultuous relationship. A bad family history and old water under the bridge." He waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder as though it really was nothing.

The change from barely minutes before was drastic, but Harry understood. He understood it almost too well, and not because Draco mimicked other potential suitors who were more dazed by the Hero Aura than anything that was particularly innate to Harry himself. He understood it because much of the time, when a situation was turned on its head and he found himself out of sorts, it was so much simpler, so much more comfortable, to let things resort to casual conversation, easy banter, and what could only be termed deliberate derision for any awkwardness or discomfort he might feel. It helped to clamber through it and stagger out the other side.

Draco was doing the same, so Harry let him. He even resigned himself to assisting him on his way.

"What, you?" Harry feigned surprise. "I would never have picked it."

"Well, I am an upstanding member of society, after all," Draco said, smirk widening and pulling just slightly on the cut on his lip. "The hatred can easily be mistaken for adoration."

"Of course. It's a thin line between the two of them."

"Remarkably thin."

"You might even say that one entails the other."

"Or begets the other." Draco snorted as though at a private joke. He eyed Harry sidelong as they paused at a crossing. "Did you have a preference?"

Harry felt his smile die into thoughtfulness. Did he have a preference? For a restaurant? Not really. Eating – or, more specifically, eating out – wasn't really a pleasure Harry partook in much anymore. There was always the concern for what was going into his mouth, how it would fit into his dietary plan, whether he could afford to include it. That aspect of life as a model was one he hadn't really considered prior to falling into modelling, but it was one that, liked or not, had become as much a part of his daily routine as a minimum of seven hours sleep, or his visit to the gym.

"We have the shoot tomorrow," Harry said absently. Then he almost winced. _It sounds like I'm saying –_

"Nothing too heavy, then?" Draco nodded, entirely unfazed. "There's a little Vietnamese joint just around the corner that's fairly reputable if you've a mind. You didn't have anything for lunch today, so that shouldn't be too bad, should it?"

Harry stared at him, could only blink in a bout of surprise, and was hastened from his slightly slowed step once more as the sea of pedestrians around him rushed forth at the changing of the lights and carried him with them. _Of course_ , he thought, a little incredulously. _If anyone who wasn't a model themselves would understand this kind of thing it would be someone like Draco._

His habits weren't necessarily healthy, Harry knew. They were essential, but they probably wouldn't be sustainable in the long run. He was constantly adapting his diet and exercise regime to fit around his work hours and just how far he could push himself. In all likelihood his habits would change in due course as his career demanded of him. It was something that Hermione didn't understand, however, something that wasn't even worthy of consideration when she clicked her tongue over the contents of his pantry, or when she took it upon herself to stuff leftovers from the Burrow into his fridge that he wouldn't eat.

Draco knew. Harry wasn't sure quite how he felt about it, but he knew what was necessary. It was… comforting? Comfortable?

"Since when do you keep tabs on what I have for lunch," Harry asked, raising his eyebrow in mocking suspicion. "No, that's not creepy at all."

Draco's lips quivered. "I'm a photographer. It's my job to be observational."

"I'm pretty sure it's your job to take pictures, actually."

"Exactly. To take pictures of what I observe."

"Which is why you take random pictures of me?"

"What?"

Harry gestured vaguely to the bag slung over Draco's shoulder, recognisable in shape as much as for the fact that he'd noticed Draco carried it with him everywhere. He'd been dragging it forth and snapping informal pictures of Harry for weeks.

"Why do you do that, by the way?" he asked. "You must have heaps by now, and they're surely not particularly appealing. Most of them I'm not even properly posing for."

Draco's eyebrows shot up his forehead as his hand dropped protectively to the top of the bag. "Are you questioning my skills, Harry? My shots are all next to perfect."

"Next to?"

"Well, I'm not that arrogant. I'll admit an inability to achieve the impossible in some occasions."

Harry hummed to himself as he drew his gaze down the street clogged with cars and buses and taxis rendered immobilised by the thick traffic. "I don't know, Draco. I've seen my fair share of photographer's work too and you'd have to be pretty close."

"You…"

Harry glanced back towards him to find Draco was slowing in step. He stared at Harry, his face fallen into unexpected blankness, but that stare held a weight and a thousand questions that Harry couldn't even begin to interpret.

"I what?" he asked.

Draco stopped entirely in place, seemingly unaware of the grumbles and frowns his stillness provoked from the pedestrians passing by him. He stared at Harry, a touch of something pained making a brief appearance upon his feature, before he visibly swallowing. "You said something like that today. In the interview."

Harry tipped his head and frowned for a moment before recalling. "About how I liked them?"

Draco nodded.

"And? What of it? I do."

"Do you?"

Harry blinked. "What does that mean?"

Draco licked his lips, flinching slightly when he caught the cut. "I know what you're doing," he said, and though his voice was low, Harry could still make it out through the bustle of the crowd and the humming of the traffic. "In your interviews – you're making it all a statement more about your beliefs and morals than about your past."

Harry smiled faintly. "I guess you really are observational."

"It's not particularly subtle of you."

"I didn't really mean it to be. Better to be obvious with these kinds of things than to give leeway for misinterpretation."

Draco regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. "I guess you would know."

Harry shrugged. "I've had a lot of practice."

"That you have."

"But," Harry raised a hand, pointing deliberately towards Draco's camera bag, "just because I'm making a statement doesn't mean I'm not speaking the truly about something, too. I like your work, Draco." He smiled again. "That one of the birds? They were just pigeons, weren't they, but the light made them look like doves? I admit I was looking more at the birds than the model."

"You were meant to be," Draco murmured, face fallen once more into blankness. Funnily enough, Harry thought that such blankness might actually be Draco at his most expressive.

Smiling more to himself than to Draco, Harry nodded and turned back down the street. "Yeah," he murmured. "I liked it." He set off in the direction Draco had led them and Draco followed wordlessly in step.

 _Cuu Long_ was a small, dainty little restaurant, outfitted to the nines in culture-typical décor. At the hour it was, with evening barely fallen and on a Monday at that, it was next to empty. That suited Harry fine, and he was certain Draco felt the same.

The waiter directed them to a single table that, even in the centre of the room, seemed somehow private for the predominance of dark woods and red lantern-borne lighting encompassing it. The clean, sharp smell of spices permeated the air, and despite the sharp contrast to Harry's usual dining experience, he thought it rather suited Draco.

"How'd you find this place?" Harry asked.

Draco paused in the act of shrugging out of his jacket. "Pansy," he said simply.

"Pansy? Really?"

"She's less elitist in her choice of restaurants than she once was. I believe she did an editorial on the hidden gems of London's culinary world in her early years."

"I can see that even less. I wouldn't have thought she'd have put her hand up for something like that. It doesn't seem her style so much."

"It wasn't," Draco said with a return of his small smirk. "Which is what makes it even funnier."

Harry smiled. "Should you really be poking fun at your friend's misery?"

"It's Pansy. Of course I should. Besides, can you honestly claim you don't do the same?"

"True enough."

His anger wasn't quite gone, Harry knew. As Draco settled himself in the seat across from him, as they spoke of idle superficialities and casual mentions of what wasn't truly important, Harry watched him and couldn't help but see the damage that had been inflicted. It was muffled slightly by the darkness, but not masked completely.

Harry hated it. He hated that someone would do such a thing. He'd meant what he said to Draco in the alley; vengeance didn't do anyone any good, and ultimately it just wound up with more pain inflicted. Where was the justice in that?

And yet, as they spoke – of Pansy for a time, because it was easy to talk of her, and then of Harry's friends, which Draco was unexpectedly open to listening about – though his anger didn't disappear entirely, it did fade to negligibility. It wasn't important at that moment. Not anymore. A shard of cold ice that would surely swell should Harry see any of Draco's attackers again still nestled indignantly within him, but it was easily overlooked. Easily tucked away.

"Pansy kept me in touch with the world when I was overseas," Draco told Harry as the waiter left them with their orders dutifully jotted down. "She likely told me more than I was permitted to know, actually."

"I don't think anyone really expected otherwise," Harry said. "Does anyone really believe enforced ignorance works in imprisonment?"

"True, but the Ministry does so like to posture, and even more so when it comes to criminals and convicts."

"Which you aren't."

"Anymore."

"Because you were wrongfully convicted."

Draco's lips quirked, and he didn't look at Harry when he murmured a brief, "Thank you."

"I'm actually a bit incapable when it comes to anything outside of using a mobile phone," Harry admitted a little while later as the waiter appeared with a silent delivery of their dishes. "Ron's definitely better than I am."

"Weasley?" Draco asked, eyebrow's snapping upwards.

"I know. It's unexpected."

"Wasn't his father…?"

"Yeah, he's a bit of a loveable nut when it comes to Muggle technology. I guess a part of him wore off on Ron. How did you even know that, by the way?"

Draco shrugged. "I told you, I observe. It lends itself to knowing certain things."

Harry only smiled.

"So realistically, I can manipulate the image to suit my liking when editing, but it's never been to my taste," Draco said nearly half an hour later as he picked at the last few bites of his noodle dish.

"Why's that?" Harry asked, swirling absently at his soup.

"Because the untouched original will always be better."

"I think a lot of photographers would beg to differ."

"Yes, and they're the ones who abuse the use of Photoshop until the image barely even resembles the original anymore." Draco rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Utter idiots. As if they believe that people can't tell."

And later still, in the aftermath of their meal, "I don't typically drink all that much. Definitely not anymore." Peering into the dregs of the rice wine, Harry swirled in hand. Night had fallen completely outside, and a scattering of other dinners spread throughout the room, but it was still quiet. It was still somehow private. And, despite the placid pace of the meal, the conversation about nothing in particular, and the lingering reminder of Draco's assault hanging over him, Harry realised he'd enjoyed himself. Being with Draco was remarkably easy.

"That's sensible of you," Draco said absently, taking a sip of his own wine before reaching for the jug for a refill. "I know a lot of people in the industry are partial to substance abuse."

Harry scrunched his nose. "Yeah, I know. It's never been my style."

"Smart."

"I take it you don't either?"

Draco snorted again and, just as he had each other time that night, instinctively touched his nose as though the gesture had pained him. He otherwise showed no apparent discomfort. "Of course not," he said. "I've had my fair share of disaster already without inducing it myself."

The thought warmed Harry just a little. He smiled down into his cup as he took another sip. Smiling had become something natural, something easy, that evening.

Until it was vanquished entirely barely minutes later.

"What?"

Harry stared across the table at Draco, his cup all but forgotten in his hand. He knew he looked a fool, knew he sat in a wide-eyed stupor that could be perceived as nothing short of objectionable, but he didn't care. All that was important at that moment was the words that Draco uttered so offhandedly.

Frowning, apparently unaware of the effect he'd had upon Harry as he eyed the wine of his cup, Draco muttered something to himself before replying. "I'll most likely take the job. After this shoot finishes up – well, suffice it to say that it will be an uncomfortable city to live in for a time. For me, anyway."

"This job… It's in Switzerland?" Harry asked, his voice just a little hoarse.

Whether Draco was a little tipsy, simply oblivious, or mildly concussed – perhaps he really had been hit harder than Harry had given him credit for – he didn't seem to notice. "Yes. Madame Clementine. You've no doubt heard of her."

"Y-yeah."

"She's a witch, and certainly reputable," Draco explained anyway. "Somehow, despite her influence, she's managed to build a reputation for being a respectable person rather than the entitled, larger than life figures at places like _Syren_ , as it were, so I think it will be…"

Draco continued, but Harry only listened with half an ear. He understood what was being said. He understood what it meant. A part of him also admitted what it meant to Harry specifically, and the weight of that was so much more than he'd expected that a piece of him was shell-shocked. But the greater part…

The greater part couldn't accept it. He couldn't. He didn't want to, because that would be to accept something far bigger and deeper than Harry had considered possible for himself. It would mean that somewhere along the way his concern for Draco had grown into something more. It meant that he cared for him as a friend but also as something beyond that. It meant that, far from the rivalry or even disregard they'd once shared, Draco had become someone important, and Harry hadn't even realised it until then, let alone told Draco about it.

He hadn't much of a care for his work – it was work, and he was good at it, and it was even sometimes enjoyable in a way – but this time had been just a little different. Harry didn't want it to end.

He hadn't much time for the people he worked with, hadn't anything so much as friends outside of those precious few he'd had for years, but Draco had managed to creep his way beyond that wall Harry hadn't even realised he'd built.

Relationships were something he didn't have time for. Love was a fallacy for him because so often it was a guise for what hid underneath. Harry hadn't ever consciously thrust it aside, had never disregarded it as impossible, but in that moment, as he watched Draco across the table, he realised that he might have come close to starting to for the first time –

Except that Draco was leaving.

The ridiculousness of the situation was almost laughable. Harry Potter caring for Draco Malfoy, not just as a friend but as a potential lover? Ludicrous. And, just as ludicrous, Draco Malfoy actually caring for him in return?

Impossible.

Inconceivable.

And yet Harry wanted it. He knew how Draco saw him, had seen that he was interested in the way that others were and that Harry had never quite liked, let alone asked for – but he'd be willing to take it. If it meant Draco would stay. If it meant the companionship that Harry hadn't come across before, the friendship of someone who seemed to truly know, of an outsider in the midst of a community that didn't quite accept him, could linger. Not Ron, not Hermione or Ginny, or Von or Dot or anyone else. No one was quite the same as that.

But Draco was leaving? He was choosing to leave?

Harry hadn't realised his hands were shaking until his cup nearly slipped from his fingers. Catching himself, he swallowed thickly, reached for the jug and filled it once more as he knew he probably shouldn't – he had a shoot tomorrow, he knew he wasn't good with alcohol, and he didn't even like it that much – but he did. Harry drained half of it in one mouthful as Draco continued before dragging his attention back towards him.

"Have you ever been to Switzerland?" he asked as casually as he could manage. Did his voice warble slightly? He hoped it hadn't. He hoped Draco hadn't heard if it had.

Draco shook his head. He shifted in his seat, still frowning in a way that tightened his whole face and bespoke aches of physical pain that hadn't been allowed to surface without the release of the rice wine. "No. I've never particularly even wanted to go –"

 _Then don't_.

"- but it should be an experience. And, as I said, good timing."

 _It would never be good timing._ Harry took another gulp of wine, throat convulsing slightly around the bitterness. "When does it start?"

Draco pressed a finger to the side of his nose again. Was it bothering him? Harry should do something about it. He wanted to, wanted to make it stop hurting, wanted people to stop hurting Draco with a fervour he hadn't even realised he felt yet had acted upon nonetheless. His fingers even twitched with the urge to reach for his wand, but he restrained himself.

"Ideally, I'd leave in about three weeks. A little after the first release is due. Four weeks at the latest."

Harry closed his eyes in a brief, tight squeeze. _I don't want – I don't want it to… don't ever want him to…_ When had he become so important? And why to bloody hell did Harry have to realise just how much only then?

"That's good," he said, opening his eyes and plastering a smile upon his face. He could do that, and believably too, he knew. There were some benefits, some skills learnt, from being a model. He knew it would fool just about everyone. "I think it's definitely a good idea. I know that all of us – you, Pansy, and me – will probably have to keep our heads under cover and out of the firing line for a while."

Draco raised his gaze from his cup slowly. The heaviness in his eyes had grown without Harry's notice, and whether from drunkenness or pain he wasn't sure. _If he hurt so much, he should have told me,_ Harry thought, though he knew Draco wouldn't have. _We shouldn't be here. We shouldn't have gone out to a fucking dinner just after… just after he'd been…_

"Do you really think that?" Draco asked, regarding him unblinkingly.

 _Why did you even ask me to dinner?_ "Think what?" Harry asked.

"That it's a good thing?"

 _Why do you look at me like that but never act on it?_ "Of course. The British Wizarding community isn't exactly the most heart-warming of places to be at the moment. They'll get their knickers in a knot at the slightest provocation."

Draco chuffed a laugh that seemed more pained than amused. He stared at Harry with question in his eyes that Harry couldn't understand, not a hint of judgement in spite of it all. It was almost kind, and Harry hated it. "They will at that," he said. "What do you plan to do?"

 _Why do you do that?_ Harry wanted to ask. He wanted to plead, even. _Why do you look at me like that after everything? We should hate each other. After what you saw with me and Sammy, you shouldn't even want to look at me. How can you_ look _at me?_

Keeping his smile fixed, Harry lowered his gaze to his wine, swirling it idly. "I don't know. I think Dot's planning on turning away most offers for a while. We're expecting outcry about something or other, or hyper-focus – which wouldn't be the first time and is far from pleasant."

"I know."

 _Yes, you would. Which is why you're choosing to leave._ "So I'll probably be doing very little," Harry continued. "I can't complain, really. A break wouldn't be so bad."

"Is that so?" Draco asked quietly. "Then it will be good for you."

Harry nodded. He couldn't look up. He didn't think he'd be able to really look at Draco for the rest of their inexplicably yet somehow pleasant dinner and, abandoning his half-eaten plate, Harry diverted the conversation into safer territory. "So, an overseas trip? Will this be by plane or…?"

It wasn't late when they finished. It wasn't particularly cold when they left. It wasn't crowded on the footpath just outside of the restaurant, and Draco led the way to an Apparition point that wasn't too far away. Yet to Harry, it all felt wrong. Too short. Too easy. Too… final. The first time they'd actually spent time together outside of work solely in one another's company and it would be the last time. Harry knew it would be.

 _Why?_ Harry thought, cursing himself as he walked in step alongside Draco, the weight of their conversation and too much wine sloshing nauseatingly through him. _Why the fuck didn't I realise before?_

"Will you be alright to Apparate home by yourself?" Draco asked as they drew into the quiet seclusion of a building's shadow.

Harry, glancing over his shoulder at the tingling presence of the magical wall they passed through, turned back towards him. For a beat, in the darkness that didn't quite shroud Draco, that only enhanced his paleness and added further sharpness to his angular features, Harry could only stare. He couldn't look away, wanted it just to remain as it was for as long as it could, and he thought he might understand just why some people, why Draco, even, was so enchanted by the art of photography. It captured the moment and froze it in time forever.

"I feel like I should be asking you that," Harry said, reapplying the smile onto his face like a smear of concealer. "You don't look well."

Draco scoffed. "I'm fine."

"That bruise on your cheek says otherwise."

"It stings a little but it's far from the worst I've had."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

Draco returned Harry's stare, and with each silent second that passed a smile made its inching way across his battered lips. It was a little loose, a little too easy, and likely more the effect of the wine he'd partaken of than anything else, but Harry clung to the sight of it. It hurt to see, to know that he probably wouldn't see it again, but he grasped it anyway.

"Are you worried about me? Really?"

Harry blinked. Was Draco teasing him? Or was this more of the embarrassment he'd seen earlier? "If you didn't realise that from the moment I caught up to you in the alley, Draco, then –"

"You don't need to worry, Harry," Draco interrupted him. His smile turned into his all-too-familiar smirk. "If anything, you're the one who needs to watch yourself. I've heard the stories about avid fans."

Harry pulled a face. "Wonderful. Thank you for that reminder."

"You're welcome."

"I'm just heading straight home, you know. You're the one –" Harry cut himself off as Draco's smirk widened a little. "You're drunk."

"Unlikely," Draco said, not very convincingly.

"No, you definitely are."

"Maybe only a little. It helps."

Harry frowned. "Helps? Helps with…?" Then, with understanding, "should we go to a hospital? If you're that badly hurt then –"

"That wasn't exactly what I was talking about," Draco interrupted him again. "But no. Thank you anyway, but no. It's fine."

He didn't say anything more after that. All he did was stare, that mixed stare that Harry could only ever discern pieces of but was even less discernible for the night's darkness that shadowed it. Harry didn't want to leave Draco in the midst of that darkness, not when he was drunk, and hurting, and could potentially even injure himself on his way home. But to assist him? Draco had been embarrassed enough when Harry had stepped in at the moment he'd definitely needed it. He didn't think that forcing assistance upon him would be taken favourably.

Sighing to himself, Harry took half a step backwards. "Alright, then," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Draco nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Maybe you could send me a text when you get home? Just so I know you actually made it there?"

Draco didn't quite chuckle, but the sound he uttered, barely more than a huffed sigh, was very like it. "You really are worried about me. Who would have ever thought that was possible?"

 _Who indeed?_ Harry thought. _Something so improbable…_ With a sharp glance sideways, Harry turned away from him. The discomforting roiling in his belly had tightened sickeningly, and he thought that if he stayed any longer he might very well empty the contents of his stomach at the Apparition point.

"Alright, then," he muttered. "Goodnight." Then he turned, hand slipping to his wand in his pocket, and Apparated away.

He barely made it through his front door. Barely into his dark, pristinely clean kitchen to stagger to the sink. His belly lurched, and with a strangled retch, Harry heaved down the drain, clutching the counter as each mouthful, each dribble of wine and soup and pain of the evening, was brought back up again. He'd drunk too much, he realised, had even known it at the time, and he kicked himself for it even as he knew it wasn't the real cause for his nausea.

 _Von always says I'm a light-weight, after all. I guess he's right._ And on the tail of that thought, _it's been a while since I've brought anything up. I forgot how bad it feels._

Even so, with the weight of Draco's words, with the epiphany of sorts Harry had been struck with, of the shoot the next day that would be their last…

There was something very liberating about sticking his hands down his throat to bring up what he'd eaten. Something controlling, and stabilising, and just a little relieving. Hermione had told him it was terribly wrong to do so, incredibly unhealthy, and Harry couldn't agree more. But just this once…

The taste was acrid to override the bitterness of the wine as he vomited into the sink, disgorging what little still remained. Acrid, and then salty, and it was only then that Harry even realised that he was crying. Foolishly, pointlessly crying. How long had it been since he'd cried? And even more importantly:

 _Why do I care?_ He squeezed his eyes closed as he hung over the sink, head bowed and fighting the foolish tears. _Why do I have to care now_?

* * *

"You look like shit."

"Thank you," Harry said without even turning to where Von had appeared at his side. He knew he did. He'd hardly slept the previous night, and the heaviness that had settled upon him lingered. If anything, it felt weightier than ever. "You've got your work cut out for you today."

For once, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel guilty for the added job his carelessness had lumped onto Von. He couldn't conjure the willpower to do much besides stand in the doorway of the studio and watch Draco as he set up ridiculously early, working with the efficiency and self-reliance of one who was regularly without a crew yet somehow managed just as well as any other photographer with a whole team at their beck and call.

He was focused, and Harry couldn't help but admire the intentness of his slight upon his camera as he positioned it on its tripod. The lowering of his thin, pale eyebrows, the severe line of his mouth, the way his jaw tightened and seemed just a little sharper as he clenched it in the throes of his attentiveness. The way his fingers, long and thin, danced over the camera, plucking and clicking and tweaking. The way every movement was fluid and deliberate, each sideways shuffling step and each momentary drop into a crouch, and how he always somehow managed to keep his posture perfect and proud. In spite of it all and how beaten he'd been in every way, Draco could still be proud. With his bruises hidden by what was more likely a charm than makeup, there was nothing about Draco that suggested he'd been even been beaten at all.

He should have been the one standing before the camera. Or he should be even just once. Harry was unexpectedly saddened that, despite his presence and what he could do and be, the Wizarding world would never allow someone like Draco stand in the limelight for appreciation and recognition. Even behind the camera he was all but openly shunned, and sometimes it wasn't even hidden.

It wasn't fair. No wonder he was leaving for Switzerland.

"Are you alright? We should probably get started, but if you needed another moment…"

Taking a second more to stare across the room, Harry drew a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes briefly, drew a smile onto his face and nodded up at Von with his watchful, frowning concern. "Yeah. We probably should. Sorry, let's go."

Turning from the studio, Harry left Draco to it. It wasn't without struggling reluctance, but nonetheless, he didn't glance back.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been leaving such lovely reviews on this fic! A particular shout-out to you wonderful few that I've seen time and again: delia cerrano, geekymom, Shadow and Moonlight, and ookami-metsuki. And to the lovely guest (you know you you are, but I don't know your name!) who's been leaving such frequent and lovely reviews. You guys give me the motivation to write!


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

THE INTERVIEW THAT REVEALS ALL – OR A LITTLE TOO MUCH?

 _In a long-awaited series, Harry Potter, known for both his pivotal role in the underbelly gang war with the allegedly-named Death Eaters and more recently for his career in modelling, speaks of his experiences for the first time._

 _An in-depth sequence, the interviews and accompanying photographs are a compilation of Potter's life, his achievements, and the steps he has taken to reach where he stands today. While excitement is rife for such a telling, there too arises an anticipated resurgence of anger for the interviewer and photographer solely responsible for this series. Pansy Parkinson, freelance journalist, and Draco Malfoy, independent photographer, are the shadow to accompany the vigorous light of Potter's story. It is no secret that both Parkinson and Malfoy share a dark past, with their own contribution to the crime scene painted by mass murderer Tom Riddle being of a less than favourable kind, and the question has been upon every lip since the moment of the announcement of their involvement and…_

* * *

Draco had to go outside.

He knew he had to, and not only because half a week within the safety of his flat had chewed through every tasteful piece of food he possessed. There were means of getting around that, services he could contact, but Draco had never favoured giving his address out to strangers, let alone inviting them to visit his very door. He didn't want just about anyone in his house, for that matter; it was his territory, and his alone.

But by half a week, the safe isolation of his flat had grown stifling. There was only so much daytime television he could watch, only so many books he could flick through, and only so much time he could spent in front of his clunky but serviceable computer in the throes of editing. Draco needed to get out – to the dark rooms of Building Eight, or to the mall rich with Muggles and supermarkets. Even to the footpath outside so that he could breathe the outside air from more than the living room window.

Draco wanted to get out – and yet he would admit to being scared to leave.

He'd seen the papers. The _Daily Prophet_ arrived in the talons of a different owl every day, shedding downy feathers and printed newspaper alike onto his dining table. He'd seen the headlines, the articles, the moving pictures that were so unlike the Muggle kind he was used to taking himself and showed far too many frowning faces to feel at ease with the contents within. Draco didn't even need to read them; he could predict well enough what they said. But he read it all anyway.

The excitement: _Harry Potter finally reveals all!_

The questions: _With his first interview, Harry Potter provides an insight into his childhood that raises as many mysteries as it answers._

The tutting and compassion: _The strength of The Chosen One, to have withstood a young life without magic_ , or the Muggle counterpart: _A loss at such a young age must have struck a terrible blow to Potter, necessitating such dependence upon his relatives…_

And the adoration: _He shows his bright side once more with casual wit_ , and _the stylistic choice of natural, unassuming wear flatters Potter in a light previously unseen,_ or _endurance of such hardships can only emphasise the strength of the person he is to this day._

They were sickening. Draco hated it, could hardly look at the articles, and not only because they were all exactly the same. They were deluded, because Harry didn't 'reveal all'. Draco knew he hadn't. They were entitled, because what right did they have to ask further questions? Their compassion was a farce, the sympathy indulgent, and the adoration was only a reboot of what the Wizarding world had clung to for years, the Muggle world the same but simply in different words.

That wasn't Harry. It wasn't for Harry that they spoke, Draco knew. It was for the idea of him, just as Harry had said weeks before when he'd revealed to Draco that he knew he was attracted to him, knew he watched him and what it meant, and had misunderstood that it was anything like how every other lustful pair of eyes regarded him. Draco hated that memory as much as he clung to every second of the night that followed. He loved and hated it equally, as he knew he shouldn't.

Just as he knew he shouldn't want to see Harry. That he shouldn't want him. That he shouldn't wonder what Harry was thinking of the interviews and photographs, shouldn't consider what his response would be to the articles that followed, shouldn't wonder what he was doing every second of the day.

Draco was leaving for Switzerland in a week, and he shouldn't be wondering just how the fuck he was going to do it and leave Harry behind him.

Draco realised, rather abruptly, that he hated the interviews. Even with only the first published in _Syren_ but days before, he knew he would hate all that followed. And yet Draco still spent hours staring at the shots he'd taken, the shots that were as close as he'd ever come to perfection. Those pictures, the one's he'd taken to accompany the first interview – they were so nostalgic that Draco was all but forcibly dragged back to their school days. Harry looked younger in the oversized clothes that he'd always worn at Hogwarts for reasons that Draco hadn't previously understood. Younger, just as he'd been fashioned for it. He didn't have his glasses on, not in these ones, but the impression was there.

Draco loved them. And hated them. And he couldn't stop looking at them.

Just as he couldn't stop reading the newspaper articles, because it wasn't only mention of Harry that he sought. It was for his own safety. For tentative insight. To understand the meaning behind Pansy's calls that told him to "stay inside today, okay?" and that "there's a pretty vicious one about you; be careful." Just as Harry was adored and fawned over, Draco and Pansy were hated.

 _'_ _Questionable choice for interviewer and photographer alike'_ was about as gentle as they came. It held nothing on the ' _irrelevant and amateur attendants'_ who were repeatedly deemed ' _unworthy of such an opportunity'_ and who _'had made mincemeat of what only Harry Potter's words and professional manner could shine through'._ Even they weren't as bad as what wasn't withheld in the gossip magazines. The Wizarding world had become brutally cruel, and the Muggle one wasn't much better.

 _Heinous tricksters_ and _Devilspawn._

 _Underhanded murderers_ who supposedly _deceived their way into Estallas en Ascenso's blinded field of consideration._

 _Scum,_ and _pureblooded villains,_ and _a shameful smear upon society_ were only dampened from outright curses for the sake of their publication, Draco was sure. It wasn't that bad, all things considered. It wasn't nearly as bad as the owls, and Howlers, and pages and pages of letters that attacked his window every day. Draco had stopped letting them in long ago, but the battering of beaks, heads, and talons upon the glass was nearly constant company the first day of _Syren's_ first release. Draco knew Pansy was being hounded with the same.

He didn't blame them. Not the letter-writers, nor the journalists, nor the public that kept their comments and criticisms to themselves. Draco hadn't blamed anyone for their hatred for a long time, for if he did he knew he would be caught up in the endless cycle of blame for a long, long time. It was just as Harry had said all too accurately the second to last time Draco had seen him: it was better to simply move past it.

Draco knew he wasn't guiltless. He knew he was deserving, was to blame – but indeed, what better way to prove the accusations couldn't touch him than to simply… move past it?

The riot that was wreaking havoc through Draco's head – about Harry, the interviews, the hatred that seemed to claw towards him like a cinch tightened around the walls of his flat – and it was only made worse by his isolation. Even Pansy's occasional visits, more frazzled and tight-faced that he'd ever seen her let herself become, didn't alleviate the tension.

Draco needed to go outside. He was just a little scared to do so.

That fear didn't stop him from rising at a frankly ludicrous hour on Wednesday morning. It didn't stop him from dressing himself far too heavily for the weather, planting a hat low onto his head and slipping a pair of sunglasses on before he'd even stepped out the door. Which he didn't do. Frowning to himself for a moment, Draco contemplated with his hand on the doorknob before stepping backwards. He drew his wand instead and Apparated on the spot.

The bathroom he appeared in wasn't in the Wizarding world. It was, in fact, so far from his world that it hardly even felt like his anymore. The cubicle had, to his knowledge, been out of order for a good long while and still appeared to be if the seatless toilet and locked door was any indication.

Pausing, straining his ears, Draco listened for bathroom attendees. When nothing but the hum of electrical lighting and the crackling flickers of that overhead light replied, he released his pent breath and slipped silently through the door. A flick of his wand locked the door behind him once more, and he was shouldering through the heavy door and striding from the distinctly grimy room without a backwards glance.

The shopping centre wasn't anything remarkable, except for being remarkably Muggle. Multiple floors, linoleum polished in a way that only seemed to emphasise the tiny scratches and scores from too many footsteps, and shops with their shutters still closed with barely a one hosting workers arrived earlier than they should have to prepare for opening. Draco squinted briefly at a distant figure that looked like a security guard, cursing his ridiculous need to wear sunglasses indoors, before hastening down the frozen escalators in the direction he knew from past experience hosted a modestly-sized Tesco.

It was almost empty. A boy at the checkout picked his nails and didn't glance up as Draco entered. He was hastening down aisles, using his wand with hidden flicks as often as his hands, and stuffing a basket full with overflowing groceries without pause, regretting as he hadn't in years that he hadn't a house elf to assist him. He'd never appreciated the house servants in his younger years, but grocery shopping had earned them a hint or two of respect since from his adult self.

The boy at the checkout heaved an expansive sigh when Draco finally stepped up to his counter, abandoning his nails and turning with ready hands and sweeps towards the basket Draco unloaded. He glanced only briefly towards Draco before dropping his attention back to his work without even a grunt or nod of recognition.

Once, Draco would have seethed at being ignored in such a manner. Once, he would have scowled and demanded some kind of greeting, because it was polite, and because he wasn't the kind of person to be bloody-well overlooked. Much had changed since such demands even tickled the edges of Draco's consideration. If anything, he appreciated the disregard. Shoving his hands into his pockets, drawing his gaze out the yawning entrance of the Tesco and the echoing, equally yawning absence of shoppers beyond, he'd never wanted to be noticed less in his life.

 _I'll get this done and go home,_ he told himself, even as a part of him grumbled that an outing to a supermarket was hardly an outing at all. _The less time spent outside, the less chance I'll be noticed. It's not good to be noticed, will be better if I can just pass through. If some tosser is looking to start a fight, then they can look elsewhere for –_

"Aren't you that Draco Malfoy guy?"

Draco flinched. Snapping his attention back to the boy, he eyed him warily. He was just a kid, and he didn't seem particularly hateful, hadn't even paused in his scanning transfer of the groceries, but Draco had to be wary. He'd learnt that much over the past weeks, if not the past years.

His absence of a reply was apparently answer enough for the boy. "I thought so," he said. "I've seen your picture a couple of times over the last few weeks. You're practically famous, huh?"

Draco pressed his lips together but muttered a reply nonetheless. "Practically."

"Huh," the kid grunted again, glancing down briefly at a bag of pasta as he flipped it in his hands to locate the barcode. "I looked you up on the 'Net, you know. Saw some of your photos. You photographed that model, right?"

"Yes," Draco said shortly. Stupid kid. He really was just a kid, but being noticed at all was disconcerting. Draco should have worn an illusionary charm.

"Yeah, I saw that too." The kid tipped his head as he beeped a block of cheese past the scanner. "Are you as much of an asshole as everyone says you are? 'Cause, you know, I've read some pretty serious shit, and if you're really that much of an asshole then –"

"Yes," Draco said, his nerves taut and patience already worn thin. _The stupid kid, he should just shut up_. "I am. Are you done with your questions, or should I call your manager?"

The kid frowned, pouted, and grumbled something distinctly unsavoury under his breath. He shook his head, however, and within minutes Draco was handing him a fifty and slinging bags into his arms to stride from the store. He could almost feet the glare the kid shot him with from behind as he left.

Not that he cared. Kids like that… it would be better if they didn't ask questions. Better if they didn't know. Besides, what was the use in trying to convince a kid that he was an good person? In the long run, what would it do? It wasn't like the boy's opinion wouldn't be changed back again the instant another article was printed, or a friend whispered a rumour in his ear.

Draco hastened from the supermarket, and he didn't look back. He didn't dawdle on his way home either, even if he did pause to affix an illusionary charm to his face so he could leave the Tescos with a sliver of confidence. The threat had been telling; that people knew his face and already had a preconceived perception of him. Nothing had happened, nothing terrible, or daunting, or even slightly nerve-wracking.

But Draco wouldn't tempt fate.

As soon as he stepped out of the open expanse of the shopping centre and into relative privacy, he was Apparating home without a backwards glance and only a hint of regret that was easily brushed aside. Nothing had happened just yet, nothing as bad as could have, but Draco thought it would be a good thing he was leaving for Switzerland soon simply so he wouldn't have to look over his shoulder every second he stepped outside. He told himself that, because it was easier than considering what he was leaving behind.

* * *

HARRY POTTER DISAPPEARED?

 _With the release of the first in his series of interviews, the request of Harry Potter upon everyone's lips are: tell us more. The glimpse into his childhood, the insight into his relationship with his relatives and the experience of his Muggle school days, provides barely a taste is what has left readers longing to hear only more of this workaday lifestyle._

 _But it is not to be._

 _Far from receptive to further questioning, Potter appears to have all but disappeared from the public eye, with sources claiming that he has even ceased work commitments on a temporary basis. When approached for comment, Potter's agent and acknowledged Squib Dorothea Picard admits to deliberate denial of further questioning opportunities._

 _"_ _Any more questions pertaining to [Potter] will remain unanswered until such a date as the final interview has been published," Picard states. "Until then, no future interview offers will be considered."_

 _That Potter has all but disappeared once more raises just as many questions and speculations as it answers, and though evidence Potter has been seen in unofficial footage, his whereabouts are as of yet…_

* * *

 _R u heading off now?_

 _Yes_

 _Cool. My place?_

"Harry Potter!"

Harry was halfway through answering Ron's text when the cry reached him. Pausing mid-step, he glanced down the footpath he was headed and through the thin foot traffic to its source. A man. And a woman. And maybe a handful of other men and women, headed straight for him with steps so fast they were nearly running.

Like a reflex, Harry flinched backwards. He was three buildings from _Estallas_ and barely a corner from where he'd parked his bike. Why he'd chosen to drive to work that day instead of Apparating into the back rooms of _Estallas_ he couldn't justify; he'd simply wanted to get out. To abandon the necessity for ducking under cover. To deny that he had to avoid and evade the sea of adoring fans who bathed in the latest news of Harry Potter as though he was a real hero and had saved the day only just yesterday.

There was only so much avoiding and evading he could take. Harry just wanted a break.

But maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should have abided by Dot's precautions and Apparated, because he'd already had one incident on the steps outside of _Estallas_ the very day after the first interview had aired. Cameras snapping, voices shouting, askance made as though every reporter and their attentive readers had the right to know – which Harry supposed they sort of did. But even so…

"Harry, can you tell us about -?"

"When you said in your interview that you –"

"How would you describe your relationship now with -?"

Shouts that were nearly screams. Questions that had long since abandoned the politeness of query and deteriorated into outright demands.

"Why –?"

"How -?"

"You have to -!"

"You must -!"

For three days after that incident, Harry had barely Apparated from his house, let alone stepped out of his front door. He hadn't needed Dot to pull him into her office, Von planted like a grim and intimidating bodyguard at his side, and impress upon him the importance of remaining hidden.

"They'll grab at anything they can get," she said with flat insistence, not a hint of concern evident in her tone despite that Harry knew she felt it. "You need to be careful. There's a frenzy going on, and if you get caught in the middle of it, you could be hurt."

"I know," Harry said.

"Don't do anything foolish."

"I won't."

"And even if you feel like you owe it to the public, no answering questions." Dot's eyes widened pointedly. "That's what interviews are for."

"You don't owe them shit," Von said in a grumble at his side.

They knew him so well. Harry wasn't even sure his friends would have leapt upon to such precaution in quite so direct a manner. Not like Dot and Von, and it struck him at that moment just how close they'd grown to him. Whether they liked it or not, and despite that they were more simply thrust into one another's company than that they chose to be, they were his friends too. Or of a sort, at least.

Harry didn't go outside in the following weeks. Not without Von. Not even with a Disillusionment Charm affixed, or an illusionary mask spelled upon own face, because experience had taught him that particularly persistent paparazzi had means of pervading such defences. There was no such thing as being too careful.

Those that strode towards him with rapid step and waving arms, already calling questions that had heads of fellow pedestrians turning and curious eyes narrowing, weren't visibly paparazzi. Or at least not at first. As Harry took a step backwards, however, he saw a camera appear from within the coat of one, a quill in the hand of another, and any doubts he'd held evaporated.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, taking another step backwards.

"Don't worry, I've got this."

Harry almost jumped as Von, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, dropped a hand onto his shoulder and tugged him further backwards as he in turn stepped forwards. Like a body shield, he planted himself before Harry, all but entirely blocking out the approaching paparazzi.

"Von," Harry began.

"Get back inside," Von said, half turning his head to glance over his shoulder. "Just leave your bike today."

"But you –"

"It's fine. Don't worry, I've got this." He gave a grim smile before turning away once more. Harry saw his arms fold across his chest, knew that if nothing else Von would present an imposing figure that could give anyone pause, and accepted the necessity as due course. There was no point in digging his heels in and protesting. Not in this instance. It would only end in climatic disaster, after all.

Turning in place, instinctively pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head, Harry stuffed his hands and phone into his pocket and strode back the way he'd come. He wove through pedestrians that eyed him curiously, didn't spare a single one a glance in return, and was climbing three steps at a time up to _Estallas'_ front door in seconds.

Harry didn't like fame. He never had. At school, it had been a begrudging necessity that no amount of derision could deflect. After the war, he'd accepted it because there was no escaping it, and because the desperate people that needed something to cling to in the grief and destruction that ensued turned to him. And after that, with his modelling… Harry would have been content to be a small face in the industry, but his name and pre-existing fame forbade such negligibility. He hadn't known that such disregard was what he'd sought all along until it was decidedly taken from him.

Now, he'd made his decision. He would have to suffer the consequences of living the life he'd chosen.

 _For some people, they don't even get to choose in the first place._ People like Draco. People like Pansy. People like the accused Death Eaters who had been little more than victims of war themselves and couldn't escape the accusations. They didn't deserve it. They didn't – _Draco_ didn't deserve the vicious attacks that Harry saw increasingly splattering across the papers and gossip magazines. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. If Harry had the opportunity, he would say something, would do something, would relieve Draco and Pansy of their guilt –

But he couldn't. Or not yet, anyway. Not while the interviews were being released, and rage and hatred was thick. Harry had attempted in those interviews to paint them in the better light that they deserved, but it was the decision of the world whether or not they'd take the direction he offered them. He couldn't force it upon them.

Thoughts of Draco always afflicted Harry of late. He hadn't seen him since their final shoot, since the moment he'd walked out the door with little more than a goodbye and hadn't let himself look back. He was foolish for wondering, for considering what could happened, what had happened, and what might have been if he'd said more. He shouldn't let himself imagine what would arise should he pick up his phone and call Draco's number. Would he answer? Would he want to? Or had he already moved on to bigger and better things in the hopes of escaping the hatred that attacked him in every article printed? Was he…?

Was he angry with Harry? Did he resent him?

Harry didn't know and he couldn't ask. He wanted to – but he couldn't. He owed it to Draco to have his privacy in the midst of what was happening. It wasn't fair to ask more of him than that, even if Harry simply wanted to know because… because…

 _It really is more than a little pathetic of me,_ he thought as he crossed the threshold into _Estallas_ ' reception room. He nodded briefly at Meghan, gestured indicatively towards the hallway and back room it entailed, and pretended he didn't notice the way her lips thinned and a frown touched her brow.

Drawing his phone from his pocket as he strode into the blessed isolation of the office's back rooms, Harry pulled his phone from his pocket again and dialled a number by heart. Ron picked up on the second ring.

"You okay, mate?"

"Yeah," Harry said lowly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… you right if I head over to yours straight away?"

Ron was silent for a beat. When he replied, it was with knowing sobriety. "Sure. Just head on in. I'll be home as soon as I finish up this last job."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, closing the Apparition Room door behind him with a soft click and bathing briefly in the echoing silence of it.

"No problem. Hey, you rode your bike to work today, right? How about I swing by and pick it up? I mean, I'm not driving that thing 'cause I actually want to live to see tomorrow morning, but I could Apparate it home if you'd like? If you drive from my place the traffic isn't too bad and…"

Harry listened as Ron continued in an over-bright tone. He thanked him silently, just as he always did of his friends, that they were so removed from the mania that was Harry Potter. In the craze that had afflicted his world, it was exactly what he needed.

* * *

DRACO MALFOY, AN UNRELENTING VILLAIN

 _"_ _He was disconcerting to work with. Always quiet except to tell us what to do in a frankly demanding way; he was pretty rude. That, and the way he looked at Harry Potter… I wouldn't hesitate to suspect Malfoy hasn't left his Death Eater days behind him."_

 _Franklin Dawley, assistant photographer of_ Syren _, speaks of his experience working beneath the tyrannical reign of convicted and reprieved Death Eater Draco Malfoy. While comments from previous employers have deemed him simply aloof and focused upon his work, the experience of Dawley and his colleague Michael Yu show a side of Malfoy that was previously hidden._

 _"_ _We caught him talking to Harry Potter a couple of times," Dawley states. "I wanted to intervene, because Malfoy? He shouldn't be anywhere near him. Even on a professional level it was horrible to see a Death Eater so close to the Saviour. So Yu and I, we kept an eye out just in case, and I think it might have been enough that we were just in the room with them both."_

 _Dawley continues to profess how daughter of convicted Death Eaters and interviewer of Potter's Pansy Parkinson allegedly made requests to privatise the interviewing._ Syren _employees, in a bid to protect the safety of Potter, deflected such requests and…_

* * *

Draco didn't read the _Daily Prophet_ anymore. In hindsight, he didn't know why he'd ever done so. He knew that no good news pertaining to himself would come of it. Even if it was tempting to hear of Harry – that he'd supposedly disappeared? That he was being all but hounded by fans, paparazzi, and reporters? – the weight of the accusations that struck him became too much.

He stopped looking. He stopped reading the magazines that Pansy sporadically sent him in her effort to keep him updated on her side of things, too. Instead, Draco settled himself with only his own pictures for company.

They splayed across the table. He knew he should pack them away, should stow them for when he would inevitably return from his trip, but Draco had been staring at them for over an hour and couldn't draw himself away. His Portkey was set to leave that afternoon, and he anticipated hype at the terminal simply for being there – but he couldn't turn away from the images. He'd already pushed back his departure unnecessarily once – but he almost couldn't bring himself to leave.

Was it wrong of him to look? To stare at pictures as though he were truly one of those lustful onlookers, the fans and photographers, the Samuel Ipetsky's of the world? Should Draco look away from what he sorely longed to follow, to approach, even to call just to talk as they'd never really had the chance to?

Probably. Draco should probably look away. He should probably smother the urges within him, because Harry wasn't just an icon. He wasn't just the Saviour. He wasn't a picture framed in white to be ogled at and pined over. Draco should put the pictures away…

But he couldn't.

There was the one where Harry was sitting on the ground from his first shoot, his knees drawn up a little before him and the neck of his oversized shirt pulled to the side just enough to leave his collarbones exposed. Harry stared at the camera, and he looked so young that Draco was once more all but overwhelmed but a wave of nostalgia. That makeup artist, Von – he had a way with a brush. He'd worked wonders.

There was the picture reminiscent of wear and tear, of exhaustion and near defeat that he'd somehow pulled through, that Von had managed to encapsulate perfectly with more of his makeup artistry. The one that was supposed to be from the war but was more correctly a snapshot reminder of the aftermath of the night Harry had slept at Draco's flat. Even with the circumstances that had forced him there, Draco found himself thinking more of the night after the club than of Sammy-fucking-Ipetsky and what he'd seen. He didn't want to think of that, and looking at Harry, at the head shot of his profile and where he stared into the distance, it was easy enough to do.

The last photo Draco had taken of him in the studio was there too, where Harry stood proud and aloof, like the model that he was, every line of him enhanced and defined into a work of art. There was nothing complex about his stance, nothing but planted feet, a raised chin, and a steady gaze, but that gaze had always captured Draco. Even in a photograph it caught him. There was a touch of perfection in that shot.

But the others? The phots that really struck Draco? They weren't to be seen by the readers of _Syren._ They weren't for the eyes of anyone else, because they were special. They were Draco's. They were the moments captured in motion, in passing, by chance, as Draco had clicked his camera to life and Harry had allowed him to capture his image. Spread in a scattering array, a mosaic of shots and fragments of time, Draco drew his eyes over them again and again and again.

A half turn over his shoulder towards Draco as he headed down the hallway at the end of the day.

A glance in the reflection of the dressing room mirror, face only half-made, to meet the eye of Draco's camera.

His bowed head as he read something on his phone, fringe falling into his face.

Little shots, little glances, little moments that Draco had captured and no one else was privy to. He clung to them, because those moments were Harry. When he was wearing his glasses, when his hair was less than sleek and as contained as it ever became, when he was muffled in so many jumpers and scarves that it was impossible to think it was all a fashion statement.

When he smiled. At Draco. For Draco. Like that last shot that Draco had taken before Harry had 'disappeared'. To Draco, that shot was the best he'd captured – and yet also the worst, because it was the last. Because Harry smiled at him, for him, and then he left with barely a tilt of his head and a murmured "goodbye".

Draco had stared at that picture for a long time. It was untouched by editing. There was nothing to disrupt the slight impression of smile lines, the barest smear of make-up in the corner of Harry's eye, the wisp of a fly-away curled from his head in defiance of Von's taming from that morning. It was Harry – and that made Draco love it.

"What the fuck am I doing?" he asked himself in barely a whisper, just as he had countless times before. Really, what was he doing? Pining like some lovestruck teenager for someone who thought he only wanted him for a quick fuck? Why hadn't Draco told him it wasn't that? That it was more than that? He should have… he could have…

It was bad. Draco knew he had it bad. Pansy didn't even tease him for it as she more than likely sorely longed to, so it must have appeared as utterly pathetic as it felt. And Draco couldn't do anything about it. He hadn't even seen Harry since that last day, that last shoot, let alone spoken to him. For all Draco knew, Harry wanted nothing more to do with him. It didn't necessarily fit the person that Draco understood Harry had become, but maybe… just maybe…

His phone rang.

Reaching absently into his pocket, gaze still fixed upon the spread before him, he raised his phone to his ear. "Yes?"

"Draco?"

Pansy's voice called him from his reverie and, with a brief moment to close his eyes, Draco set about gathering the prints. "Yes?"

"Oh, I caught you before you left? That's good."

"I'm just leaving now."

"You'll call me when you get there?"

Draco paused, print in hand and staring at where Harry had sat at a table in the dressing room, his chin in his hand, smiling slightly at where Von sat alongside him. Even with Von's size, Harry was the centrepiece of the image. He always would be.

"You're being strangely protective at the moment," Draco said, slowly laying the print back down. "What's wrong with you?"

Pansy huffed into the phone, though it sounded more amused than indignant. "Am I not allowed to express my concern? The world is vicious at the moment you know, Draco."

Draco allowed himself the ghost of a smirk. "It is. So you should watch yourself. I'll be halfway across Europe."

"I know. And leaving me behind, at that. How dare you."

"I won't be gone long, I shouldn't think."

"No, no, don't say that. Stay longer. It's a shooting range here at the moment and we're the dummies. Better you stay away."

Draco smiled softy. He could do that when Pansy was only on the other end of the phoneline; she couldn't poke fun at him if she didn't know he did it. "Thanks. Maybe you should take a trip too?"

"I was thinking as much," she murmured. "Maybe I'll go down and visit Blaise."

"And get hammered every night?"

"I'd only be joining him. Word has it he does so himself every other night."

Draco chuckled. "You should, then. Have fun."

"Maybe I will." Pansy paused for a moment. Then she cleared her throat, and in a surprisingly tight voice continued. "Take care, Draco. It really is better to stay away at the moment."

Draco's smile died. "You too, Pansy. I'll see you on the other side."

"See you."

The line cut out with a beep. Draco lowered his phone from his ear, hand tightening around it in a squeeze, and stared at the stack before him. It was an abuse of the prints to stack them as such, and a part of Draco protested the manhandling without even the protection of magic between each layer, but a larger part of him didn't care. It didn't care enough when he scooped them up to fold them against his chest before lifting the extendable bag at his side and starting towards the door.

Only to pause with his hand on the doorknob, the other clenching his phone in a death grip. He stared at the door, lowered his gaze to his phone, and couldn't help himself.

 _Just once_ , he thought. _Just… just one call._

With a deep breath – he was only tempting fate, was only going to make his inevitable departure worse, but he couldn't help himself – Draco clicked his phone to life and called the number that he'd never directly called before. A part of him soared as soon as he pressed the button.

* * *

THE SECOND REVEAL – AN INSIGHT INTO HARRY POTTER'S SCHOOL LIFE

 _As fans and admirers alike swallow every ounce of news pertaining to Harry Potter, the second interview reveal is met with raucous excitement. Despite that much of his schooling years has been tracked and deduced by onlookers and many speculations published, this reveal marks the first in-depth exploration of the first years of Potter's magical life._

 _From the terror of his first confrontation with the once-feared He Who Must Not Be Named, to his final days at Hogwarts and the death of Albus Dumbledore, this interview spans the laughter, the friendships, the trials, and the tribulations of Potter's educational career. At present, Potter still remains uncontactable, but this latest reveal provides the temporary balm to soothe the burning enthusiasm for his story…_

* * *

Harry stared down at his phone. He stared much as he'd been staring for the past hour as pre-dawn drifted towards morning. His eyes had long become blurred, the figures of the familiar phone number all but overlooked, but he still stared.

How was he supposed to respond to that kind of message _?_

He'd missed the call. but the voicemail still echoed in his ears, despite listening to it only once at the ludicrously early hour that he'd received it. _Hi, Harry! Sorry we parted a little awkwardly last time – or a lot awkwardly, I suppose you could say, haha. We're okay though, right? You didn't get into any strife over it? I'd bet not. You're pretty good at talking your way out of things. Anyway, listen, turns out I'm back in London for the moment, and I was wondering if you'd want to catch up again? Maybe we could finish up on better terms this time?_

Harry wasn't angry. He'd never been angry at Sammy for how he'd quite literally disappeared from _The Corner_ weeks before. He wasn't mad that he hadn't sent even a single text since, hadn't called, hadn't checked to make sure the 'strife' wasn't unmanageable.

Harry wasn't angry. He simply wasn't anything towards Sammy.

Maybe he should reply. Maybe he should take Sammy up on his offer, because why not? Why the hell shouldn't he? What was wrong with meeting up for a drink and a thorough fucking, even if it was with someone who would disappear at a moment's notice and not look back? If Sammy wanted it and Harry wasn't entirely averse to the prospect, then why shouldn't he?

Harry let his phone flop down into his lap, slumping back into the arm of the couch. He wouldn't. Didn't want to. Couldn't quite make himself. It wasn't that he was a prude, or even particularly reserved; Harry knew himself, knew his habits, and knew that it was a blessing word of his night habits hadn't found their way into the papers, because it would surely tack 'promiscuous' onto his name alongside every other tag.

It wasn't for such reserve that he didn't message Sammy back. He simply didn't want to. For once, not even the knowledge that Sammy wanted to himself was enough to urge him to reply. Not this time.

Harry's flat was empty. It was quiet. It was so clean that he couldn't even busy himself with the mindless task of dusting, or unstacking his dishwasher, or running a charm over the rugs that covered the otherwise immaculately empty wooden floors. He'd spent enough time indoors in the past weeks, enough time pottering around in isolation when he wasn't at his friends' houses, or in their occasional company, that there was little else he could do.

So, Harry sat. He ignored his phone where it rested in his lap and instead tucked a knee up before him to his chest and dropped his forehead atop it. How was it possible to feel so tired when he did so little? Working out in the secreted little gym he attended that was about as close as he could get to privacy wasn't stimulating. Watching the television was utterly dull, and there was only so many articles he could read in magazines in his attempt to dodge around those concerning himself, or Draco, or the resurgence of hatred for Death Eaters that routinely arose and had simply been biding its time for a suitable trigger.

Harry was biding his own time, but he wasn't quite sure what for yet. In avoidance, maybe – of the paparazzi, of his obsessive fans that he couldn't even speak to, of his own thoughts… Definitely his own thoughts. They were dangerous territory. It was unfortunate that when he was left to himself those thoughts welled forth.

Had Draco left yet?

Had he flown or taken a portkey, as he'd said he would?

Where exactly in Switzerland was he going?

And, most importantly, was he alright? With all that was going on, every story in the papers and the magazines, and what would surely be less than amiable confrontations in public, was he alright? Harry wanted to know. He wanted to ask, wanted to pick up his phone and call just as he'd never done before, because he cared. Unexpectedly, too late, and quite suddenly yet in a way that didn't feel sudden at all, Harry found that he wanted… that he wanted to…

His phone rang.

Harry closed his eyes. He couldn't even bring himself to look down at his phone where it vibrated against his belly. _Please don't, Sammy,_ he thought, willing the call to end prematurely. _Please just leave me alone for the moment._

Sighing, resigning himself to the inevitable – for Sammy had a history of persistence when ignored – he opened his eyes and picked up his phone. Only to freeze when he caught sight of the name and number on the screen.

 _He's never called before_. Harry's throat tightened. _Why would he call?_ He hand clenched around his phone. _Why would he…?_

Harry pressed his phone to his ear. "Draco?" he almost whispered.

"Harry."

Just that. Just a simple word, and almost as tentative as Harry's. And yet it rung on echoing repeat in Harry's ear and he clung to it fiercely.

"Are you –?" he attempted before his voice caught. Swallowing, he tried again. "Are you alright?"

"I'm…" Draco trailed of for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. "I'm just about to leave."

It hit Harry like a hippogriff kick to his chest. "Oh." A pause, and then, "Have a safe trip, then. I'm sure you'll enjoy being away from it all –"

"Do you want to come with me?"

Harry's words stuttered off. His breath caught. "What?"

"Only if you want to," Draco said. Something distinctly urgent touched his words, almost managing to override what sounded oddly close to pleading. "Only if you really want to, Harry. Not because I asked it of you, or because someone else is making you. Do you… do you want…?"

He trailed off, and the silence that followed reverberated in Harry's ear. He almost couldn't breathe, his breath coming in stutters. His other hand rose to cusp the phone against his ear, and in the midst of a ballooning, incredibly warm swell in his chest, Harry realised he was nodding almost desperately.

"Yes," he croaked. "Please."

He was on his feet and out the door in minutes with barely a second paused to recognise the sudden euphoria that swept through him for what it was.

* * *

A/N: I am so sorry for the lateness of my update! Real life bogged me down and I'm only just getting myself organised enough to properly post.  
I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and hopefully I'll get back on track for next week. Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The elevator pinged, the doors slid open, and the first thing that Draco saw was –

Glass. A wall of glass. And then beyond that…

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself. "Extravagance isn't exactly unanticipated, but this…"

Since departing the dainty little portkey terminal in Lucerne barely an hour before, Draco had little enough time to sight-see. He'd had little time to do anything, really, despite spending the previous night in the capitol, Bern. Checking into the hotel had been a late-night event, and the portkey booked for that morning was ridiculously early. Draco appreciated the tourist gig, and had never been to Switzerland before himself, but the miss was practically negligible because –

"Wow. Madame Clementine doesn't do anything by halves, does she?"

Glancing sidelong, Draco couldn't help but watch as Harry took half a step towards the wall of window on display across the breadth of the room. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, his eyebrows raised and his mouth slightly ajar, and in all honesty, Draco couldn't blame him for his stupefaction. Still, despite the view, he found himself almost as transfixed by Harry and his open wonder as he was what lay beyond the window itself.

Madame Clementine's studio building perched atop a cliff of sorts. A cliff that overlooked not only the huddled little city of Lucerne in all of its picturesque glory but also the sprawling expanse of the lake it sat alongside. That lake, wide and so dark and deep that it could have been a reflection of the night sky Draco had glimpsed that morning, had become a golden mirror of the rising sun in breath-taking glory. The haphazard ring of mountains surrounding it, the green hills interspersed and speckled with distant, winding roads that traipsed across their splendour and all upon a backdrop of orange, pink, and pale blue – it was stunning.

Not that Draco could look for long. It was beautiful, yes, but he was just as intent – if not more – upon watching Harry's reaction. Harry was, he'd discovered, nothing short of a novice when it came to travel and sightseeing. He took every turn and lookout with a face of wonder.

 _I'm so far gone that barely a year ago I would have been thoroughly disgusted with myself,_ Draco thought, but he couldn't find himself objecting to the fact. Harry was here, with him, had said "yes" and "please" as though he actually wanted to be, and that agreement somehow meant more to Draco than the job itself. In the face of second-guessing his inclination to take the job at all – the interview package offered by _Syren_ and _Estallas_ was good but not good enough to turn up his nose at more work – simply because it would mean leaving Harry behind in London, the outcome was nothing short of ideal. Almost too good to be true.

That entire morning, the entire night before, the evening in the hotel, Draco struggled to properly believe the reality he'd fallen into. 'Too good to be true' didn't necessarily mean that it wasn't true, did it? He and Harry hadn't discussed just what lay between them, hadn't really had the time, and yet…

" _Hallo_ ," a voice said, interrupting Draco's thoughts and staring. _"Wie kann ich lhnen helfen?"_

Drawn from his attentiveness, Draco glanced across the wide – ridiculously wide – spread of the foyer that mimicked the lake beyond the window almost eerily. An equally wide desk, of darkwood and shining with polished reflectiveness, stretched along the wall adjacent to the elevator. A single young man sat behind it, perfectly groomed in a tailored suit and blinking at them with quizzically raised eyebrows and open expectation.

Brushing past Harry where he too had shaken himself from staring out of the window, Draco approached the desk. He knew enough hodgepodge German to make sense of the man's words, but replied in French nonetheless.

"Hello," he said, tipping his heat in a nod of greeting. "My name is Draco Malfoy. I've got an appointment with Madame Clementine."

The man's face cleared instantly, and he too switched to French without a hitch. "Ah, of course! Mr. Malfoy. You have made good time today. I trust your travels were agreeable?"

How different it was, to be met with a smile by not only someone in the industry but also a wizard as Draco knew all of Madame Clementine's workers were, and face not prejudice but a professional greeting. How strange, yet how satisfying. Draco would always love England, and he would always long for it just a little when he was abroad, but there were definitely benefits to stepping outside of its disfavouring borders.

"Well enough," Draco replied. "The connections were efficient."

"Wonderful," the man said, smiling easily as he rose to his feet. "If you please, I won't be a moment. I'll just inform the Madame of your arrival."

With that, he skirted around the desk, crossed the room, and slipped through one of only two doors in the wall. In the minimalistic refinement of the space, the doors themselves almost invisible in their seamless camouflage with the wall, the man's confident, fluid step fit perfectly. He disappeared in a muted click of the door.

Taking a slow glance about the room, Draco ran his gaze over every inch of space that breathed of Madame Clementine. She had a style that he'd seen many a time in the work attached to her name, and even if she wasn't the one directly behind the camera, nor the one who crafted the garments her models wore or the one who held the brush and applied the makeup, her presence pervaded nonetheless.

White walls and dark floors. A predominance of crystalline glass. A glorious image of a young woman in blacks and whites taking up the majority of the wall-space between the two doors. Throughout the room, that style of minimalism, of refinement, extended without the rigid lines that such designs might otherwise entail. A pair of seats alongside the glass window-wall, positioned just so and with a low-lying table between, a stretch of space along either side of the seating that was empty of adornment or furnishings and only seemed to enhance the beauty of the room rather than make it appear dauntingly sparse. Even the receptionist's desk embodied Clementine's unique style.

"I've seen her work before, but I've never met her myself."

Harry's murmured words drew Draco's attention towards him where it could never drift for long. He was staring out the window once more, but less in awe and wonder this time. He seemed more… contemplative.

Draco took himself back to Harry's side. Even so close, it was nearly impossible to believe that Harry was with him. They'd shared a portkey, and Draco had stood alongside Harry as he'd called his agent Picard from Bern in a belated explanation of his abrupt trip to Switzerland. He'd met Harry's stare when he'd ended the call, and Harry had smiled a little tentatively with an almost questioning "I guess I'm free to go now."

The urge to reach out a hand and touch his shoulder was almost impossible to resist. Just to be sure that Harry was there. That he was with him. That he'd decided to accompany Draco, not because Draco wanted it and had demanded it of him but because Harry wanted to be there. He _wanted_ it. Draco was still reeling slightly with that knowledge; it was enough to distract him from the job that should have, by all rights, monopolised his attention.

Draco didn't think he'd ever been less focused on a job in his life.

"She's good," Draco replied to Harry's words in perhaps the biggest understatement of the year. "There's a reason she's Creative Director of _Karisma_."

"I know," Harry said, and likely he truly did. Draco knew he would have and could accept that he did, but in some ways, despite that even to simply look at him would give evidence that he was model material, it still struck Draco that he was a very different person to the boy he'd once known.

"Would you like to work with her?" he asked, tipping his head in a curious study.

Harry pursed his lips, frowning slightly as he stared out the window, before nodding slowly. "I think I would. I'd learn a lot from someone like her, I think."

"Learn a lot?"

"Of course. It's not like I know everything about modelling, Draco. Not even close."

Draco opened his mouth to ask the obvious – that a part of him was almost surprised that Harry would even want to so actively learn – but he was silenced by the quiet opening of the door across the room and the re-entrance of the receptionist.

Not that the receptionist was the most important of those that entered. He was barely noteworthy at all in the company he held.

The first impression Draco had of Madame Clementine was… tall. Startlingly tall, and to the degree that Draco doubted many of the models she corresponded with would manage to cap her height. That, and that she was, remarkably, rather plain. Tall was the only distinctive feature Clementine possessed; simple-featured, mousy hair with just a hint of grey affixed in a low bun, a plain pantsuit and heels that were modest if nothing evident at all. She would have been almost underwhelming to behold in light of the reputation she possessed.

Except that she wasn't.

As Clementine strode towards Draco and Harry in confident steps, she carried with her an air of professionalism, of superiority without condescension, that immediately made Draco feel just a little small even without consideration for her height. Not even the small smile that touched her lips alleviated that, nor that she immediately stuck out a hand towards Draco as soon as she was close enough to suitably offer it.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said with a nod. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Draco said, mimicking her French and accepting her proffered handshake.

"I appreciate the promptness of your attendance. You arrived in Lucerne just this morning, did you not?"

Draco nodded. "We did, though I've no dispute for the fact. It's hardly unexpected, and I'm eager to see what we'll work with today."

Clementine's smile widened with a twitch, satisfaction softening her features. "I'm pleased to hear it. Word is that you're an efficient and dedicated worker."

"Is that the only word you've heard of me?"

"Of course not. I'm hardly the kind of person to request the attendance of a worker that I know nothing of."

Draco tipped his head in acceptance of her rational. "Then I thank you for the opportunity. And for your consideration. I've never travelled to Switzerland before."

Clementine's smile widened further. "Then you must make the most of it," she said. A gesture towards the wall of window seemed to be in deference to the entire country. "Lucerne is a delightful site for visitation. Perhaps you may consider extending your trip?"

"Perhaps," Draco said with a slight shrug. "But we shall have to see in due course. I understand that you wished to begin shooting just as promptly as my arrival?"

There was definite approval in Clementine's smile this time, and that, alongside her entire lack of disagreement, condescension, or hatred that so often splashed across the faces of those who had employed Draco in the past, left a tightness in his chest to the point that he had to swallow thickly to attempt to rid himself of it.

"Ideally," Clementine said. "Not only an apt photographer but a dedicated worker, Mr. Malfoy? You do yourself proud."

"I think you're one of the few in the world who would think that," Draco said, though a hint of pride settled within him at her words. Madame Clementine thought he was 'apt' and 'dedicated'. There was little higher praise in the industry.

"Oh, I don't think so," she replied. "Take a compliment, Malfoy."

"With no strings attached?"

"No strings. This time. Besides, I'm not hiring you without consideration. You've made a name for yourself, particularly of late."

Draco frowned in silent query, but Clementine's gaze flickered away from him and over his shoulder. Turning, Draco followed the line of her gaze.

He'd only been half aware that Harry had drifted away from them. Whether for the sake of offering them privacy or from his own boredom wasn't apparent, but he'd taken himself back towards the window. Instead of the open-eyed fascination he'd briefly worn upon entering the reception, his attention seemed almost calculating. Harry was drawing his own gaze about the room contemplatively, curious and considering in a way that bespoke not the intimidation of an amateur but calm recognition of the unfamiliar and gradual assessment of the little hints that resounded just a little.

Draco saw it. He admired it and even respected it, for it was an embodiment of everything that he too embraced in a professional context. Harry wasn't working, likely wasn't even considering appealing to Clementine's own assessing gaze, but he gave off a favourable and professional impression nonetheless.

 _As if he wouldn't in any context_ , Draco thought to himself. It wasn't only because he was Harry Potter, because he was famous from a walk down more than one avenue, or because he was beautiful, though each element likely contributed. Harry made an impression whether he wanted to or not.

"Mr. Potter, is it?" Clementine suddenly asked, slipping readily into English with only a slight skew of her accent. Her long stride took her to Harry's side, and she was towering over him almost before he'd properly turned towards her. Harry wasn't tall by modelling standards, instead lying distinctly on the shorter end of the spectrum, but he looked almost childlike by comparison.

Not that it seemed to faze him. As Draco slowly followed in Clementine's footsteps, eyes flickering between the two, he saw Harry smile with the quiet reserve that bespoke real professionalism once more. He accepted the hand Clementine extended towards him without hesitation.

"Yes," Harry replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Madame. You've turned _Karisma_ on its head in all the right ways since you took it by the reins."

Draco felt his eyebrows rise and almost raised his voice to speak – to rebuff what could have been a criticism, or to lessen the open honestly Harry displayed even a little – but Clementine was chuckling in a warm, rich voice. "Are you attempting to curry favour with me?" she asked.

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "That depends. Is it working?"

"That depends itself upon whether you actually know what you're talking about. I'm not partial to appreciating the regurgitation of flashy headlines."

Harry's own smile widened, the dimple appearing in his cheek. "You and me both. But I'd like to think I know what I'm talking about and keep up to date with the news when I seem to be in it so often."

"Is that so?"

"Is that a surprise? From what I've heard, you're gradual diminishing of Silvio Carle's residue was definitely impressive, especially since no one seemed to even realise what a mess he was happening until he was halfway out the door. When was it, May, two thousand and one? That was when the first article came out, wasn't it? The one where you…"

As Harry spoke, continuing with a tangent that Draco was familiar with but hardly to such an extent, Draco could only stare in suppressed wonder. Harry actually knew what he was talking about. Really knew rather than just 'regurgitating headlines' as Clementine had said. Had he looked it up before they'd arrived? But no, he wouldn't have had the time. Had he really had an interesting in working with Clementine for so long that he'd made a point of keeping up with news of her? No, that didn't seem right either.

The stereotype that models were dumb and oblivious was largely inaccurate, Draco knew. Of course, there were always exceptions; every industry had its share of illiterate and crass fools that begged the question of just how they'd managed to attain the position at all, and the role of a model was far from exempt – and yet it wasn't as overwhelmingly consuming as many assumed. Not in the least.

Yet somehow, Draco hadn't expected Harry to be as up-to-date with the politics behind the scenes of photography and magazine management. Not in the least, and definitely not after how little interest in studying he'd had in school. It was surprising, yet oddly satisfying, and Draco couldn't help but smile a little as he watched Harry gesturing with a sweeping grace he definitely hadn't had in school, in full possession of Clementine's attention.

"... can't say I'm familiar with Marco de Grace specifically, but he's definitely left a trail of destruction behind him," Harry was saying, nodding with a slight purse of his lips.

Clementine hummed, her lips twitching. "Yes, I've always thought so. But then, de Grace never had much of a hand for subtlety."

"I know, right?" Harry agreed.

Clementine chuckled again. "You surprise me, Potter."

"Please, feel free to call me Harry."

"Harry, then." Clementine nodded, half turning away from him but not quite shifting her attention. "I take it you've taken the chance to visit in the company of Mr. Malfoy?"

"You could say that," Harry said. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not interested myself, though."

"As you should be." Her smile became a little more of a smirk as she turned back to Draco. "I take it you don't have any objection to Harry's presence in the studio?"

Draco shook his head. Would he ever object to Harry's presence? "Not in the least. Provided he doesn't make a scene of himself."

"I'll do my best," Harry said, flashing Draco a smile.

That smile - it was entirely for Draco. As though he didn't care that Clementine might see it and see a hidden potential behind it, or that the receptionist might catch a glimpse and wonder what it meant that Harry Potter would smile like that at Draco Malfoy. It was more than likely that he truly didn't.

Harry wasn't quite like anyone's expectations. Not even Draco's. He was realising that only more and more the longer he spent in his company.

Really, Harry wasn't anything like he'd expected at all. That fact only made Draco want him more. How was it possible to long for someone who was stood barely a handful of steps away?

"If you'll follow me this way, then," Clementine said, breaking into his thoughts. "Despite any inclinations we might share for talking the morning away, time waits for no witch."

With leggy strides, she was crossing the room again without a backwards glance. Only a word flung to the receptionist, a querying "Josef hasn't called in yet has he?" and the replying dissent, was spared before she all but disappeared for the efficiency of her step.

Draco offered Harry a glance of his own over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. Harry only shrugged. He was smiling, though, and that smile was comfortable, and easy, and so different to those he wore before the camera that Draco couldn't help by respond in kind.

He tipped his head and waited for Harry to fall into step beside him before following in Madame Clementine's wake. This job was an opportunity for him, and the lack of animosity he'd encountered until that moment was above and beyond what he'd been offered in almost every job he'd encountered in the past. But, with the comfortable weight of Harry at his side, the weight of what his company meant, Draco thought that the phone call he'd made in in England, his last desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea, was the best choice he'd made in a long time.

* * *

What was strange was that the studio in Lucerne was no different to those that Harry had worked in countless times before. Each agency, each photographer, each office building with its towering heights and panoramic views or low-lying building with studio buried in its lower levels – they all had their own distinct style. Their own layout. Their own choice of props, and equipment, and brand of that equipment.

But by and large, the studios Harry had seen weren't all that different. What was different about this instance lay in his perspective.

Watching other models as they performed for the camera wasn't an unfamiliar experience for him. He always watched his colleagues; when he was first learning, and even before that when he hadn't truly believed modelling was a pursuit he would truly undertake, Harry had watched. In more recent years, he observed his fellow models it was with a learned eyes; he knew what they did, why they did it, and how it would translate to the camera, if not quite how he would emulate it himself.

But it was different again this time. It was different because, for once, Harry stood in the studio in a role entirely from being even an onlooking model himself. He watched and he admired the efforts of the models, but his attention lay more specifically upon Draco.

It wasn't a big day of shooting. The preliminaries, Clementine had called it, before she'd all but abandoned the studio to Draco and the team of assistants he'd been introduced to. "Working behind the lens isn't my job," she'd said to Harry as she'd passed him. She'd tipped her head back towards Draco. "Call it a trial-run to see if he's really fit."

Then she'd left, but the way she smiled was very telling. Harry didn't think there was much of a 'trial' truly involved. Not when it came to Draco.

And he was right. Draco hit the floor running. He took command of the assistants with the professional detachment and minimal interaction that Harry had seen of him in his own shoots, seeming to struggle not in the least for the larger cast of attendees. Then he fell to the task of directing the models.

Photos. Shots. Adjustments of the lighting, nudging the softboxes in place, raising and lowering stands. It flowed seamlessly. Standing along the back wall, Harry couldn't help but watch in keen interest as what swelled and roiled behind the scenes was put on display for him. It flowed effortlessly, and it was more than apparent that Clementine's workers knew what they were doing.

But what was truly captivating to watch was Draco.

Harry didn't know what to think of him. He didn't know how to feel, or what to do. Something had changed between them with the single phone call he'd made, but Harry didn't quite know into what shape it had morphed into.

He wanted to know. He wanted to understand what hummed and quivered between them, what that tension – palpable ever since Harry had Apparated to the portkey terminal barely a day before – had been. It wasn't a bad tension, not I the least, but the way it made his skin prickle, dancing as though struck by static, was unmissable.

As Harry watched Draco, he caught himself staring at the little parts of him he'd noticed but never had the chance to really appreciate. The slight curl of white-blond hair around his ear. The line of his jaw as it tightened slightly when he ducked to position himself properly behind the camera. The clever dancing of his fingers, the easy fluidity of his motions, the way he would thin his lips at the same moment he would ever-so-slightly frown in a show of disapproval that was all he let himself show.

Or the way he would glance towards Harry.

It wasn't often – Draco was working and, as Harry had anticipated, he became utterly focused when a model stepped onto the bleached white floor and glaringly white backdrop before his camera. But in the moments of transition when it did happen, Harry noticed. Just as he noticed the barest hint of a smile that accompanied it before disappearing when Draco refocused his attention.

 _He's so different to when we were kids,_ Harry couldn't help but think as, leaning against the back wall and deafening himself to the murmurs and snapped directions of the photography crew that flowed around him, he observed through the passing morning. _No posturing, no witty remarks, no arrogance…_

Draco should have been proud of what he did, for Harry had seen his work. It was, in a word, stunning. How he managed to capture still life in such a unique manner Harry didn't know, but it was impossible not to be more than a little awed. And yet in the single situation that Harry had known him when his childish arrogance would have been warranted, it was absent.

 _Or smothered_ , he thought a little sadly as, watching an attentive crew-member nod vigorously to one of Draco's curt directions, he couldn't help but compare them to the assistants at his own shoot. What was wrong with the world that they couldn't appreciate art and the artist without dragging the dark, painful, and utterly irrelevant past into the limelight alongside it?

When the shoot hit a break at midday, Harry was faintly surprised. Had it really been hours? The morning had been chewed away without his notice. Straightening from the wall, Harry spared a glance around the studio, at the myriad of activity from the crew and models hastening off the floor and through the equipment on striding feet and beneath the directive hands of their managers respectively. Harry took a step towards where Draco was turning from his camera but was stopped almost instantly by a tall figure appearing directly before him.

" _Ja_ ," the woman said, eyebrows rising with a snap. " _Ja_ , _ich kenne dich_."

Harry paused, shifting his attention to where she admittedly towered over him. It wasn't solely because of her unearthly shoes, either; she would have rivalled Madame Clementine in height. The girl – for she was only young and couldn't have been more than twenty years old – was stunningly beautiful in a way that had little to do with her makeup, though was certainly enhanced by it. The contouring on her cheeks, the heavy liner around her eyes, the rich curve of her similarly lined lips, all pieced together to build the face of someone that would stop shoppers if pinned to a billboard.

Not that anything from _Karisma_ would be seen on a billboard. The magazine wouldn't stoop to such levels of commonality.

"Hello," Harry said, offering a small smile. He held out a hand. "Sorry, I don't speak German. I'm Harry. I was watching you before, you're very –"

" _Ja, ja,_ Harry Potter!" the girl exclaimed, eyes brightening. She clasped his hand in both of hers and squeezed it enthusiastically. Then, all but bouncing in her heeled shoes, she dove into a rapid torrent of German that Harry hadn't a hope of discerning the meaning of.

He couldn't help but smile, if a little bashfully. It was one thing to be noticed by people in England, both Wizarding and Muggle, but in Switzerland? Admittedly, Harry knew his share of models from abroad, from Helena Christensen to Jason Lewis, but then who didn't? To think that he might be known in such a way… He wasn't sure whether being recognised for modelling or for the war was better. Or worse, as it may be.

As the studio climbed in echoing volume, the crew falling from their precise attentiveness to the casualness of their lunch break, Harry was all but shaken by the eagerness of the girl that was still clutching his hand and speaking profusely in words that he couldn't understand. From the way she reached for his lapel to pluck at it, how she gestured to his hair with an appreciative hum, he supposed her opinion of him was influenced by his modelling history, but still. Disconcerting.

"I'm sorry," Harry reattempted as, in a series of repeated words, growing slower and slightly louder with each rendition, the girl squeezed his captured hands and questioned him imploringly. "I don't understand what you're saying. Could you maybe…?"

The girl didn't wait for him to finish before leaping into another string of words. It was only when Harry glanced to their side in a half-hearted plea for rescue that she was interrupted. A woman, dressed down as either a manager or member of the crew typically was, appeared at the girl's side and cut her off with a word and pointed direction. In an instant, startling slightly beneath the woman's suggestion, the girl uttered a hasty apology – Harry could understand that word at least – and trotted away in her too-high shoes. Harry was left staring after her, shaking his head slightly. It wasn't as though he hadn't encountered such enthusiasm before, but here? In Switzerland, when he wasn't even working?

"You appear to have acquired a fan."

Shaking himself from watching the girl disappear through the distant doorway, at the clamour of other bodies, crew and managers alike, swimming after her, Harry dragged his attention to where Draco had appeared at his other side. He was smiling, if only just, and regarding Harry with such an intense stare that Harry almost forgot what he'd said the instant he met his gaze.

"I don't know if it will ever not feel a little bit weird," he said.

Draco, adjusting the camera he always carried on its strap around his neck, cocked his head. "Even after so many years?"

Harry shrugged. "I wasn't exactly celebrity material as a kid. Not to most people."

"Meaning your Muggle family?"

"Yeah. Meaning that."

Draco's expression flickered. Harry couldn't quite place just what it was that cast a shadow across it, but he'd seen it frequently of late. He wanted to ask, wanted to know why Draco would almost but not quite frown, why his lips would press together as though fighting the urge to speak when he'd once been the sort of person who never held back. But he didn't. People changed, after all, and Harry knew as well as anyone how tiresome it became being accused of such changes.

Instead, he half-turned in place, gesturing towards the doors where the last of the crew that weren't still pottering around the studio were trickling through. "You're on a break now, right? Did you want to…?"

Draco blinked. Shaking himself slightly, his expression cleared into the quiet impassivity he always wore. "Lunch," he said with a short nod of his head. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Bullshit. We practically skipped breakfast."

Harry shrugged. Skipping meals wasn't exactly a foreign concept to him. Even so, he followed after Draco as they made their way from the studio in the general direction of the elevators.

Madame Clementine's establishment – her studios, her reception, her back rooms cluttered with every clothes rack and vanity that a model could need – was more like a hotel than an office building. Removed from Lucerne as it was, the opportunity to immerse itself in magic was far more possible than it was working in the city and for the companies that Harry had been a part of. That _Karisma_ was a solely magical magazine and fashion line made it even easier.

Except that it wasn't. In spite of its isolation, its predominance of witches and wizards, and the head of the company being a renowned with herself, magic didn't permeate every room and fizzle through the walls like an air conditioning system. There were no folded, magically animated notes flapping about as flooded the British Ministry of Magic, no snaps and crackles of spells, no appearing or disappearing employees as they disregarded the elevator system and Apparated instead.

It was nice. In many ways, Harry kind of liked the break from the Wizarding world. Maybe it was a Swiss thing, or maybe it was an industry thing; though not quite to the same degree, he'd noticed that many of the companies he worked for in the past didn't integrate magic into their daily routines quite as much as others. It was an aspect of the modelling and photography world that he hadn't known or anticipated but certainly appreciated.

Despite the absence of magic, however, there was nothing simple or humble about _Karisma_ 's headquarters. The hallways were wide and sleek, the elevator just as much and large enough to avoid more than the occasional brushing of shoulders with other passengers. The prevalence of windows, providing frequent panoramic views of the lake and the township at the bottom of the cliff the hotel-office perched upon, made those hallways seem larger still. Even the dining area – an actual dining area that looked more like a restaurant than a cafeteria – hosted a wall made purely of glass much like the reception several storeys above. It must have been magically insulated, for despite the winter that lightly frosted the windows, the restaurant wasn't cold, but that was the only artificiality about the room. The sight beyond was entirely real.

"You seem a bit partial to the view," Draco said, drawing Harry's attention back from where it had drifted once more.

Harry, the lunch he'd acquired through use of Draco as a mouthpiece all but forgotten on the table before him, dragged his gaze from where he'd been caught staring. It was a little hard not to look again and again; he'd never seen anything quite like the sweeping line of the cliffs, the fuzzed edge of the lake, the picturesque interruption of the smooth lake-surface by what looked to be a motorboat for the line of white-caps left in the water behind it. It was difficult to be sure, though; at such a distance, it could have just as likely been a freshwater creature of sorts. Harry had barely stepped out of England before, and the only for work and in his younger years of Hogwarts attendance. He'd never really had the chance to appreciate such sights in person.

Glancing towards Draco, his reply died on his lips as he watched Draco draw alongside the table. He placed his own lunch on the table before fiddling briefly with the camera hanging around his neck and take a slight step towards the window. Impassivity swirled in a juxtaposing mix with his concentration, the slight crease on his brow that Harry had witnessed throughout the shooting that day and then before, with his own shoots, the only interruption of his mask. He watched as Draco took a handful of snaps before lowering the camera and frowning instead down at the screen as he flicked through it.

Harry watched and couldn't quite bring himself to look away. Draco was… different, yes. Very different to the person he'd known from their school days, but it was made only more apparent when out of a working context. More than acting different, however, he felt different. Harry felt it in how he watched Draco and struggled to swallow down the lump that grew in his throat when the hint of a satisfied smile touched Draco's lips, or when he absently flicked escaped tendrils of his fringe behind his ear.

Or a very similar lump that arose when he glanced at Harry, met his gaze, and didn't scowl, or sneer, or frown in suspicion.

"What?" Draco asked, less of an accusation and more with open curiosity.

Swallowing down the tightness in his throat, Harry shook his head. Propping his elbow on the table, he dropped his chin into his palm. "Not just me. You too."

"Me what?"

Harry gestured to the window. "You seem a bit taken with it too."

Draco glanced towards the wall of glass. He nodded slowly. "I am. I suppose I'm partial to beautiful things." He glanced down at his camera, finger tapping lightly upon the edge. "Perhaps that makes me superficial."

"I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing," Harry said. "Liking pretty things, I mean. You're allowed to appreciate superficial beauty, so long as you realise it's not the only important thing."

"Of course I know that," Draco said, a slightly condescending edge to his words. It was enough that Harry found himself unable to withhold a small smile that would have once been a scowl. "I'm a photographer, Harry. My work would be very pathetic indeed if I only captured what was beautiful on the surface."

That condescension died as Draco glanced towards him. His smirk faded too, though his careful impassivity didn't quite replace it. Instead, he raised his camera once more and, before Harry was really aware he was even doing it, snapped a few shots of him.

Harry blinked. He frowned. Straightening slightly in his seat, he tipped his head curiously. "Why do you do that?" he asked, and maybe it was that he was no longer working with Draco, but it somehow felt more relevant to ask that confusing question now than it had been weeks before. "For that matter, why do you carry that camera around with you? Is it just a personal one or…?"

For a moment, Draco's expression stilled. The buzz of conversation, foreign words and less-foreign laughter a rippling match to the distant undertones of orchestral music overhead, seemed to grow louder for his silence. Until Draco's lips twisted and his gaze dropped to his camera once more.

"It is for personal use, yes," Draco said, though it sounded more to himself than in reply to Harry. "I may not have always appreciated the captured moment quite like I do now, but when that appreciation manifests, it's impossible to set aside and maintain only in work hours. These pictures… they're my own captured moments."

"Oh." It didn't quite answer Harry's question, but he let that fact slide. "I guess you really are a photographer, then, huh? I wouldn't have picked it for you back in school."

The seriousness of Draco's expression dissolved as he raised an eyebrow and pinned Harry with a hooded stare. "Oh, you wouldn't? So I'm the unexpected one?"

Harry grinned. "Yeah."

"Not yourself, who historically blundered through every confrontation with the press and shied away from every camera you could?"

"Yes."

Draco snorted. He finally dropped into the seat at Harry's side with a shake of his head. " _I'm_ the unexpected one…" he repeated in a mutter. "Honestly. Harry Potter, becoming a model. You know how unexpected that was when I came back from overseas?"

Harry raised a shoulder. "Well, I've got to keep you on your toes."

"Yes, I'm sure that was the only reason. For my benefit."

"You bet." Harry smiled again, picking up his fork and turning his attention to the motley array of his salad. "You should know by now, Draco, everything I've ever done has been in an effort to undermine you."

Draco didn't reply. It wasn't because he'd started on his own lunch, either, which Harry only realised when he folded a forkful into his mouth. Draco had paused, his fork stabbed but otherwise abandoned in what looked like an omelette of sorts. He wasn't looking at it, however, and instead had his gaze pinned on Harry, eyes slightly narrowed.

Swallowing his mouthful, Harry cocked his head. "What?"

"Why did you, then?" Draco asked.

"Why did I…?"

"Become a model." Shaking his head slowly, Draco lowered his fork with the faintest _clink_. "You've never liked the limelight, so why?"

"Oh, you know I don't, do you?" Harry asked, only half teasing.

"I do," Draco replied. There wasn't the barest hint of jest in his own voice. "I know you never liked being the centre of attention, even if I pretended otherwise. You hated it when reporters came to the school, or when you had to get your photo taken. You always tried to get out of any situation that put you in the middle of it all, though it rarely worked given you're you."

"What's that supposed to -?"

"So why?"

Harry stuttered to a halt at Draco's blunt interruption. Lowering his own fork, Harry dropped his gaze down towards the bowl before him. Why? Why did he do what he did? Why had be become a model when he would readily agree that it was about as far removed from any kind of route he'd felt he should have taken, from anything he'd felt competent enough to pursue?

"I guess…" Harry pursed his lips. "I was going to be an Auror. I really was. Hell, I practically convinced myself that was all I could be from fourth year."

"All you could be," Draco echoed.

Harry wasn't sure if it was meant to be a question or not so continued otherwise. "I started training, and sure, it was what I expected it to be. A bit less glamorous than I'd anticipated, and a good chunk more theoretical than practical, but yeah. Not unexpected. Except that it didn't fit. Or more – I didn't fit. I didn't…"

How could he explain it? How could Harry explain to someone like Draco – to anyone, even – that the thought of facing each day in preparation of a fight, a battle, with walls raised against attack or defence, had exhausted him? He'd been stretched thin to a point he hadn't believed he could be stretched, extended beyond the extension the war had drawn him, and it was tiring. So, so tiring to think that it would never end.

All of the anger, the hatred, the fervent fury and passion that had driven him to fight – it was as though it had all been drained from him, like a bathtub of water when the plug was pulled. Harry didn't even have the dregs left to paddle in, let alone to pretend that he was still swimming.

Modelling hadn't fit him at first. It wasn't something he'd ever considered for himself. But it surprisingly fit more than being an Auror had.

"I know I'm not exactly model material," he said, gaze still downcast and fixed upon his absently twirling fork. "I know that. But I was – I _am_ a face that people recognise, and that people will follow and listen to whether I want to be or not. And if, somehow, in this way, I can do something… if I could be somehow useful, then…"

Pursing his lips once more, Harry lowered his fork to the table. He'd had barely a mouthful, but the thought of eating more clenched his already tightened belly. Modelling was a career he'd pursued and being a model was what he'd become. Harry was proud of that in a way he hadn't thought was possible. And yet, in the face of explaining it all, of turning aside from a life as an Auror where he was fighting, and defending, and standing up for the minority and the victimised…

Sitting across from Draco, a victim himself and someone that Harry could have, _would_ have, defended if he'd been more than a face in a magazine, he couldn't help but feel guilty for his choices.

"You," Draco said, "have a problem."

Shaken from rumination, Harry glanced across the table towards him. Draco's face had hardened, his lips thinned in that way that Harry had recognised in recent months meant he was sorely tempted to speak, even to rant and rave, but that the inhibitions born from a hateful world held him back. He stabbed his omelette, however, his disgruntlement redirected.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"You." Draco punctuated the word with another stab. "You're always acting as you think you should. For other people. To help people or whatever, even if you're only one person and there's only so much you can do. Has anyone ever told you that you have a hero complex?"

The words rung in Harry's ears, so reminiscent of Hermione's, of Ron's, that for a moment he was rendered mute. He struggled to thrust the discomforting feeling aside that arose, but before he could reply, Draco snorted and continued. "I've always hated it, you know. Even before I was photographing you specifically. You stand in front of a camera, and you do as you're told, and you pull up a face and adopt an act because it's what 'the people' want, and what 'the people' need. Because it's your job."

Harry felt his shoulders tighten, his hands curling in his lap where they'd fallen. Draco's words were true, and they weren't necessarily accusing or fierce, but they felt like an accusation nonetheless. An accusation of a wrongdoing.

"There's nothing wrong with trying to benefit the people around in whatever way I can." _Even if it's just standing for a camera or supporting a cause with a smile._ "Besides, what do you expect? I'm a model. Posing for the camera is what models do."

This time, distaste spread across Draco's face so quickly it was as though it had been simmering beneath the surface the whole time, simply waiting to arise. Clicking his tongue, he turned his head sharply to the side and jerked back into his seat. His arms folded almost fiercely across his chest.

"Sure," Draco said. "That's exactly what models do."

"It is," Harry said. "Just like photographers are meant to stand behind the camera and take the pictures they're told to take."

Draco's lips whitened as he pressed them together. He eyed Harry sidelong. "I don't think models are supposed to do everything you do."

"What?"

"Letting your photographer convince you that it's practically part of the job description to fuck him is part of the job description too?"

For a second, Harry couldn't breathe. All that hung in fractured statements in his mind was "Photographer?" and "but Draco's my photographer". Until it registered that Draco wasn't talking about himself at all.

That unexpected guilt, the same guilt that had been sitting with Harry for weeks since Draco had caught him and Sammy in the club, had his shoulders drawing compulsively to his ears. Fingernails biting into his palms, Harry swallowed down every excuse that arose.

 _Please don't talk about Sammy right now. I don't want to think about him._

And _, why do you have such a problem with it? It's just sex._

And, _Please don't think less of me. Don't look down on me. Don't hate me for it._

And woven throughout it all, _what you're thinking – it's not wrong. I'm not helpless and just being dragged along. It wasn't like I expressly didn't want it, it's just…_

Draco didn't want to hear that. Harry knew because he'd already tried. He'd tried several times, in fact.

"Can we not talk about this?" he said quietly.

"I don't think it's something that should be brushed," Draco said sharply. His voice rose slightly, and though Harry knew that they were in a restaurant of mostly German or French-speakers, he couldn't help but dart a glance sidelong. "This is a problem. It's wrong."

"It's not like it's exactly unknown, Draco," Harry said, huffing as he folded his own arms across his chest. Somehow, it felt more like he was holding himself than showing defiance, however. "Everyone knows what happens behind closed doors in this industry."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Oh, it doesn't, does it?" Harry felt a spark of anger flicker within him, though not for himself. Not for Sammy, and the sex, and all that he knew – _knew_ – was swept under the rug. "Just like the fact that everyone else looks the other way when you're beaten the shit out of isn't right?"

The twist in Draco's expression unwound as he blinked in surprise. "That's –"

"Just as bad," Harry said flatly.

"It's not – it's not the same as –"

"Maybe not the same, but it's definitely as bad." Harry leant forwards in his seat, practically across the table, and pinned Draco with a frown. "If you're going to get on my back about this kind of shit, be prepared to take it. _Yours_ is a problem."

Draco stared at him for a long moment. A long, breathless moment, unblinking and unspoken. Then he too leant against the table, dropping his elbows with a heavy thud.

"I hate that you're objectified," he said, short and sharp.

Harry nodded, taking the blunt accusation for what it was. "Yeah, well, I hate it that you don't get properly credit for your work just because you're the one standing behind the camera."

"I hate that you don't get a choice in what you do and who you work for, and don't –" Draco raised a finger as Harry opened his mouth to protest, "- try and tell me you choose. That choice is a load of bullshit and you know it."

Harry pressed his lips together, scowled, then said, "I hate that you've been forced to pick up dead-beat jobs that don't appreciate your talent because everyone apparently thinks what the war did to you has something to do with your work."

"I hate that people see your pictures but don't really see you."

 _That was true, but –_ "I hate that people see yours and don't see you at all."

"I hate that you feel like you need to be someone and be helping people to be appreciated."

 _That stung, and yet –_ "I hate that you've had to change yourself and hide who you are because of a war that no one's prepared to move on from, even after you've finished your sentence."

"I hate that you wear a fake smile so much of the time."

 _So, so true._ "I hate that you hardly smile at all like you've practically forgotten how to."

"You dress like everyone's watching and you're expected to be seen."

 _Because that's the reality._ "You try so hard not to be noticed, and it's so not like you."

"You eat like a rabbit and starve yourself to boot just so people will see what they want to see."

Harry flickered a glance down at his salad. A bubble of distaste fizzled in his belly. "And you," he said quietly, "have to cover up your bruises so that people won't see what they don't want to be blamed for."

Draco paused. His lips were parted, on the verge of speaking further, but he momentarily paused. Then he scoffed, hung his head, and ran a hand briefly, absently, over his cheek as though tracing one such bruise. That flicker of anger ignited into something sharper and brighter in Harry, an unexpected rise of something he hadn't felt but in brief spurts for years. He had to clamp down upon it to keep from glaring at a room full of people that had absolutely nothing to do with his anger.

"I suppose," Draco said slowly, "we're a bit the same in that regard."

Harry waited for him to continue, but as his silence ensued, prompted him gently. "What do you mean?"

"You. And me." Draco glanced up at him, head still lowered but gaze intense. "Why do you care?"

There was a question beneath that question. Harry heard it, even if he couldn't quite make out the specific words. Even so, he felt it. Thought and felt that maybe he might have been able to discern what they were anyway.

Swallowing a return of the lump in his throat, Harry lowered his own gaze, squeezing his clasped hands once more. Being with Draco was strange, and not only because he was different to how he'd been. It was strange because of the anger that arose within him when Harry saw his bruises, the regret when he'd watched Draco on the last day of shooting, the emptiness in the days afterwards when all he could do was wonder what was going on for Draco in the face of publicised articles and published pictures.

"I guess…" Harry trailed off. He licked his lips, took a breath that hitched, and managed to raise his gaze to meet Draco's. It was hard, but somehow utterly necessary when he noticed Draco staring back at him as though he were the only person in the room. "Why did you ask me to come with you? Yesterday, when you were leaving – why did you ask me?"

Draco didn't speak in reply. Harry didn't really expect him to. Instead, he simply held Harry's gaze and somehow, even without words, Harry thought he could heard an answer. An answer of the kind that twisted his gut and inhaled a balloon in his chest, making it more than a little hard to breathe.

He thought that maybe, just maybe, the answers to those not-so-unalike questions might be perfectly the same.

* * *

A/N: I am SO SORRY that it's been so long again! Hopefully I'll not be as terribly slow next time. Thank you to everyone who's still sticking by me; you're all so wonderful. And if you're new, thanks for taking a chance on my story!


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Happy New Years everyone! Enjoy some shameless misunderstanding trope and sickly sweet fluff!

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

The woman was absolutely, gloriously stunning. Through the eye of a viewfinder, she was even more so.

Draco had an appreciation for superficial beauty. He always had, as much in himself as in others. He was self-aware enough to know that he was attractive, and he was satisfied with that fact. Just because he was attractive, though, didn't mean he had to act upon it. It didn't mean he had to respond to others who recognised that truth either.

Harry had been right when he'd spoken days before: appreciation for superficial beauty was all well and good, but it certainly wasn't all there was to it.

When Draco peered at the young model through the lens of his camera, the natural light playing through her hair and captured by the lines of her dress far too cold for the season, he knew she was beautiful. It didn't mean that he was any less aware that there was a distance between them that he wouldn't cross, a distance that had absolutely nothing to do with the stretch of pebbled shoreline extending towards where the model posed on shoes too high and far too impractical for the setting. Draco had never understood how some photographers could think that appreciating beauty entailed the right to touch it.

Like Sammy fucking Ipetsky.

Shunting the thought from his mind, Draco frowned through his camera, adjusted the angle just so, and took another snap. Another tweak, another glance, and a second, then a third. As he eyed the fourth, nodding absently to himself even as he frowned at the flaws he could already see simply on the digital face, flaws that would have to be smoothed away, he straightened.

"Alright, you're done," he called to the model. Flicking a hand in the direction of the crew waiting attentively around him, he gestured for cessation of the shoot. As one, managers, dressers, and dismantlers flooded forwards to disassemble and cluster around the model like pigeons flocking to a pile of breadcrumbs.

Draco ignored them. Turning from the shoreline, camera in hand, he flicked through barely a sliver of the hundreds of pictures he'd captured that morning already. A splash of nature was the theme of what would be a multi-page spread, and though that theme had been only artificially placed in the shots he'd taken in the studio, the clean, crisp, glowing images he'd captured that day out on a backdrop of authenticity would more than make up for it.

Looking down at the pictures – of the woman who was barely more than a girl, of the man who was practically a boy, of another girl – Draco was satisfied. They weren't perfect, but they were –

"That's beautiful."

Startled, Draco glanced over his shoulder to where he hadn't even noticed Harry appear. Harry met his gaze, his face barely a hand's breadth away and chin nearly resting on Draco's shoulder, and smiled slightly. _So close, so, so close,_ chanted in a sudden stuttering spurt in Draco's mind, and he had to forcibly thrust it aside to avoid saying something that would make him sound like a fool.

"They are," he said, raising the camera slightly for Harry to better see the screen. It wasn't typical protocol to show such glimpses to anyone but his closest correspondents on the floor for consultation and consideration. But Draco found he didn't really care. Not when it came to Harry.

Harry, on his toes to better see over Draco's shoulder, rose just a little higher as he peered curiously at the camera. He didn't lean on Draco – a happenstance that Draco didn't let himself regret the misfortune of – but his fingers rested just lightly on his shoulder as though to steady himself. Or to keep the distance; Draco didn't know which.

"She's got a really interesting presence," Harry murmured as Draco flicked to another picture. "The way she holds her shoulders, I think."

"Mm." Draco certainly agreed on that. The girl was something. "And her stare."

"I like her eyes, even if I think the eyeliner's a little heavy."

"You and me both. Given it's supposed to be a 'natural' theme… Although I'm usually more partial to minimal makeup."

"You could have suggested otherwise. I'm pretty sure Madame Clementine would have taken you up on any suggestion you'd make."

Glancing towards Harry again, Draco met his gaze. He wasn't wearing his glasses that day – "If we're going outside and through the woods, I'd rather just go without them," he'd said – and that close, Draco could make out the fractured, multihued splinters of green in his eyes. Personally, he didn't think that the model in his camera had anything on Harry.

"I don't hold that much sway," Draco said, speaking through his distraction. "You clearly think too highly of me."

"Or you don't think highly enough." Harry took a step backwards, his fingers dropping from Draco's shoulder, and Draco tried not to regret his slight retreat either. "She must think something of you since she called you out specifically. Where's that pig-headed confidence I used to hate you for so much?"

There were a number of aspects of that statement that Draco could have objected to. That Madame Clementine often sought less known photographers in what many saw as a pity party but what she claimed was an exploration of undiscovered talent. That Draco had never been 'pig-headed', even if he had admittedly held an excess of confidence back in the day that had since been undermined, and that Harry was certainly one to talk. But in spite of the arguments he could have presented, all he could think of was –

 _'_ _Used' to hate. He said 'used to'. Which means that now is different._

Draco knew that. He knew that Harry didn't hate him, and not just because he'd agreed to accompany him to Switzerland. Not just because he'd stood up for him in the face of nameless aggressors, defending him when Draco couldn't defend himself. Not even because, by and large, every interaction that they'd had was amicable and increasingly comfortable.

More than that, Draco knew because in the past few days, things seemed to have changed just a little. Certainly since he'd all but blurted out the truth of his feelings barely days before in the middle of a crowded cafeteria.

The past half a week had been extraordinary. Lucerne was a beautiful town, picturesque in a way that London metropolitan couldn't capture nor even pretend to embody in feeble mimicry. It was quieter, more peaceful, more open, and Draco was struck by the ease that had gradually sunk into every muscle and tissue within him at the knowledge that he could step outside of the hotel he stayed at without needing to cast a wary glance over his shoulder.

Madame Clementine's studios were a photographer's dream. Not only were there so many to choose from that Draco doubted anyone could cry that they couldn't find one to fit their personal taste, but they were stuffed with equipment and polished gear, with technology, and lighting, and standardised cameras of the highest quality and newest make.

The models were suitably compliant. The hours were long, but they weren't backbreaking. The facilities were respectful and fruitful, and Draco was all but given his head to direct the crew to their most useful purposes. It was all that he could ask for in a job, and even if it was offered to him out of pity, he would embrace the opportunity with both hands. Once, Draco would have been far too proud to accept such off-cuts, but not anymore. Definitely not anymore.

But that wasn't all. That wasn't even the best part. What somehow outshone the opportunity, the liberty, the benefits of working with professionals that respected him as those in his own city didn't, was Harry. It was that Harry was there, with Draco, and he hadn't left him yet. He hadn't seemed even slightly inclined to.

Harry had accompanied him to Lucerne. He'd joined him in his trip, and even if Draco had been the one to ask it of him, Harry had wanted to come. He'd accompanied Draco to the studio every day since they'd arrived, standing in quiet and watchful attentiveness as Draco worked, and he'd seemed more than happy to put sight-seeing on the backburner for the moment when the days finished late and Draco was rendered weary but satisfied and reluctant to pursue any kind of vacation activities.

Harry didn't complain. He watched, and waited, and when Draco took his lunch he joined him. When Draco left for the day, Harry left alongside him. When he retreated to his bed, it was to see Harry doing the same, or to watch him curl up on the couch with a magazine propped against his knees, or to sprawl before the television and flick idly through the channels to one either in English or with subtitles. A part of Draco felt more than a little guilty that Harry was practically trailing him like a dog on heel with little contribution to the act, but the bigger part…

 _He's here. He's with me. And he said he wanted to be._ That meant more to Draco than the job. Far more.

On the lakeside, the attending crew were making short work of packing up the scene. The models, wrapped in heavy jackets to stave of the cold that would have chilled their skinny frames to the bone in their thin outfits, were being herded up the shore like glamourous cattle. Draco took a step backwards from an older woman as she appeared alongside him, reaching for his abandoned tripod and folding it with practiced hands. She nodded silently to him, nothing more than an acknowledging gesture, and set about her work without comment.

It was nice. So goddamn nice to just be able to do his job.

Glancing back towards Harry, Draco dropped onto his haunches to pack away his camera. Even if it wasn't his personal camera, he still always preferred to do so himself. "What do you think, then?" he asked, as much as something to say as in real curiosity.

Harry, watching the cluster of models with a hint of that professional consideration Draco had seen in him in the studio, snapped his attention back towards him. "Sorry?"

"The shoot." Draco gestured to the vacated shoreline. "That's a wrap, unless I kick up a fuss and demand we do a re-take. So, what do you think?"

A slow smile crept its way across Harry's face. It wasn't a fake smile; not the kind that he wore before the camera. Draco was quietly pleased that, when it came down to just the two of them, Harry rarely seemed to paint that smile upon his face anymore. "I think," he said, a little chidingly, "that you would have to be a bit of an asshole to demand something like that."

Draco smirked, shrugging. He busied himself fixing the camera in its straps before closing the case. "Asshole or not, it's my choice. I'm just asking your opinion as to whether you think making such a demand is necessary."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not."

"Are you sure? You saw the pictures too."

"They're fine."

"Not perfect, though. They can always be better."

"Every picture can always be better, Draco."

Draco nodded knowingly. That truth was one he understood only too well. Never perfect, even if he thought he might have come damn close in recent months. "True," he said. "To be honest, I don't think I'd make such a demand even if I thought I could get better."

Harry cocked his head, eyes widening with false innocence. "What, you? Not grapple for perfection?" He inhaled a dramatic gasp. "How uncharacteristic. Are you coming down with something?"

"You're hilarious," Draco said, rising to his feet, but he otherwise disregarded the teasing. Or at least he did but to smile with the irrepressible urge he often found himself caving beneath so often when it came to Harry these days. Draco slung the camera bag over his shoulder, casting a quick glance around the scattering of crewmen who had already started to make their way up the hill after the models. The supervisor on sight – Ana, he recalled her name was – raised her hand and her voice to him indicatively, suggesting they leave to 'escape the cold' that had admittedly fallen with the encroaching evening, and Draco nodded obligingly.

There would be time to talk to the crew. To the supervisor, the models as Draco made a point of doing when they were obliging enough to actually speak to him, and to Clementine herself. But not today. The final day of shooting promised a distinct drop in commitment hours over the next few days, and Draco was determined to embrace that distinction immediately. The trip might be for work, but with Harry in company, Draco had decided to make it not only work.

 _That_ was certainly uncharacteristic of him

Stepping to Harry's side, Draco urged them in the wake of the retreating party. On the tail end as they were, the openness of the shoreline a striking difference from contrast to civilisation, it was peacefully intimate. Even more so as, allowing for a small distance to grow with the slowness of his steps, Draco found himself walking in the relative privacy of only Harry's company.

Whether Harry was aware of Draco's dawdling intentions or not didn't really seem to have much sway over the fact that he slowed in step alongside him. However, instead of persisting with the light-hearted teasing he'd tossed about with increasing frequency over the past days, Harry remained silent. Silent and staring as, head turned and gaze drawn to the lake, he stared past Draco as though he barely noticed him at all.

Draco didn't much like to be ignored – at least not by Harry – but he could withstand it for a time. Especially when such a peaceful expression settled on Harry's face as he lost himself in his staring. He really did seem to have a taste for the view, which was far from unwarranted. For Draco, though…

His fingers itched for his own camera. He didn't think he could ever capture too many of Harry's moments, and that one was certainly worthy of adding to his collection.

"You really like it, don't you?" he said as much as asked.

Harry blinked slowly, not quite shaken from his distraction. "I do. It's peaceful, and somehow clean. And private, even if probably millions of people have seen it before." He shrugged slightly. "Maybe I'm just an amateur when it comes to this kind of thing, though, so it's hitting me a bit more than it should."

"An amateur?" Draco raised an eyebrow, spared a glance for the party stretching even further ahead of them, and proceeded to disregard them once more. "How so?"

Harry shrugged again. "I've never really been on a holiday before. Going to Hogwarts when I was eleven was about the furthest I'd ever gone from home. It was definitely the most exotic place I'd ever been."

The thought that the Scottish Highlands, that Hogwarts itself, could be considered exotic was a little horrifying to Draco. He grappled with the thought, with his contrasting disbelief and pity of _never been on a holiday?_ and _I was spending every couple of months in our Parisian manor practically since I was born._ His jaw worked, and something about his internal struggle must have shown through, because Harry broke through the last of his detached staring to laugh quietly at his dilemma.

"It's not that bad, is it?" he said, smile wide and eyes bright.

"It's bad," Draco said. "Very bad."

"You remind me of Ginny. She looked like she was having a stroke when I told her I'd never actually left England before going to school."

In spite of himself and the instinctive urge to disagree to anything Weasley-related, Draco found himself commiserating with the sentiment. Even if his commiseration was underscored by a distinct distaste for Ginny herself; there was a whole world of resentment involved when it came to Ginny Weasley that Draco didn't even want to consider resolving, a resentment that had absolutely nothing to do with her family name.

"Is that why you decided to come along, then?" Draco asked. "When I asked you?"

Harry didn't reply immediately. Lowering his gaze, he regarded his feet at they crunched over the pebbled shore, little scraping, grating sounds of stone on stone elicited with each step. Each time Draco had asked him that question over the past few days, the same question that he all but knew the answer to and yet wanted to reclarify again and again, to get a proper answer, _the_ answer, his pause grew a little longer.

"No," Harry said finally, his voice the only sound louder than the distant murmur of the retreating party before them. "No, it wasn't."

Each time it was the same reply. Each and every time. Harry must have known what Draco was searching for. What answer he wanted to hear. And yet, time and time again, all he admitted was 'no'.

Madame Clementine was a wonderful inspiration. Seeing her work, being in her presence – it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. But that apparently wasn't it. Escaping from England, from the reporters, the paparazzi, and the public, from curious eyes and wagging tongues – it was liberating, wasn't it? But apparently that wasn't it, either.

Not the country itself, nor the town. Not the break from the drudgery, nor a desire to take a much-needed holiday. Draco was asking, narrowing down the possible options, because even if they'd all but answered one another days before, all but admitted the meaning behind the pain, the protectiveness, the anger, and the need for company, Harry hadn't said it. He hadn't said _it._ Admittedly, neither had Draco, but Harry – he was the one that hadn't said it, and he was the one who had to.

Draco wouldn't take. He wouldn't assume he had a right to anything. He wouldn't be like everyone else who had asked and stolen too much already.

For days, Draco had committed himself to that end. Absorbed in his work, it hadn't been as much of a trial as it certainly could have been. Harry's company at the studio was a distraction, but not overwhelmingly so. His presence in their hotel suite captured Draco's attention like a fireplace burning in a frozen room, but he'd been able to suppress the urge to act upon it. Draco was managing, and he was managing well, but that had been before. Now, he was all too aware that the time-commitment aspects of his work were all but complete. Editing and tweaking the final product that would take more time, but it wasn't as demanding of his attention.

Even after a day of shooting that the crew had repeatedly and enthusiastically reminded him would be the last day , Draco was suddenly starkly aware of that fact. Aware, and just as abruptly confronted with the ardent need to know. To understand. To ask properly and to receive a proper answer.

Slowing in step, Draco cast a glance towards the last of the departing group ahead of them. He met the eyes of one as they tossed him a moment of their attention over their shoulder, but only nodded in reply to the unspoken question before disregarding them and watching them disregard him in turn. Instead, Draco turned towards Harry and properly paused in step.

Harry obligingly stopped alongside him. Turning to face Draco himself, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders slightly. The cold nipped at him much as it did Draco, and Draco was glad he'd managed to convince Harry to purchase a proper coat just days before. Gladder even more that he'd taken Draco's suggestion of which one to buy; Harry had developed adept fashion instincts, but he'd accepted Draco's offer as though he didn't have any investment one way or the other.

Draco was pleased for that fact because he'd chosen the coat, and because it did look good on him. The colour, the cut, that somehow he managed to make the hood actually fashionable when he bothered to pull it up – all of it. What he didn't like, however, was that Harry had just accepted it. He'd just taken the suggestion as though it was an order and followed it.

Why? Why did he do that? Why didn't he ever try to impose his own choice on the matter? Why did that part of him, the part that had always been so defiant and loud, so demanding in their school days, have to disappear when Draco had always secretly loved it? The challenge, the exchange of verbal warfare, the thrill of one-upping him – it had been a highlight of his adolescence that Draco hadn't realised was so important to him until it was gone.

It was more than a little infuriating, and increasingly so because Draco was waiting. He was waiting for the words, and the admission and the – the _want_. Why couldn't Harry tell him what he wanted?

 _"_ _Why did you ask me to come with you?"_ Harry had asked him on their first day in Lucerne, as though it wasn't blatantly obvious. Because Draco cared. He wanted. He wanted so much that his fingers tingled with the urge to reach out, just to touch Harry – his hand, his arm, his face; anything – and he had to forcibly hold himself back. He wanted to talk for hours on end about the foolishness of a magazine spread, or debate over the latest claims that Potioneer Danielle Bern had revolutionised the make-up industry. He wanted to share not just lunch but breakfast, and dinner, and to spend the aftermath washing dishes just as Harry had done in his apartment weeks before, not because he liked to clean but because of what such simple domesticity entailed.

Draco wanted to wake up in a bed and roll over to see a familiar face beside him, not just flushed with lust but with affection. He wanted that, and that want had only become more profound in a very short time.

Mostly, however, he wanted Harry to want him back. It wouldn't mean anything if he didn't have that.

"What is it?" Harry asked, breaking the silence between them with almost lilting inquiry. "What's wrong?"

Only then, standing and staring, battling with himself, did Draco realise just how long he'd been silent. Only then did he realise just how demanding the thumping in his chest, the twinging in his gut, and the itching of his fingers had become. Grasp tightening around the strap of his camera bag slung over his shoulder, Draco took a deep breath, released it, and inhaled another just as deep.

"Draco?" Harry asked.

He was frowning slightly. A concerned frown, almost worried. Draco supposed he couldn't blame him. In the short walk they'd taken in the passing minutes, Harry hadn't been partial to the train of Draco's thoughts. He didn't understand. More than that, he couldn't see himself and didn't know just how much Draco had been hiding with the excuse of work, professional distance, and the social expectations that would assault him should he speak his feelings back in London.

Now, those feelings felt fit to burst from him, and Draco wasn't sure if they would appear in the form of anger, or longing, or sheer desperation.

"Harry," he said lowly, gaze falling to the short span of pebbles between them. "I have to ask you."

His voice caught and, in the brief pause, Harry edged a step closer to him. "What's going on? What's…? This is out of nowhere. What…?"

It wasn't out of nowhere. Not even slightly. For Draco, it was the most relevant thing in the world. "Harry," he attempted once more. "How do you feel about me?"

Silence. Silence uninterrupted by the footsteps of Clementine's workers, or the crunch of stones beneath models' heels, or the bubble of chatter that passed between them. Silence except for the sound of Draco's breathing. The sound of his heartbeat in his ears. The sound of his internal cursing with the questioned why, _why_ had he asked such a thing instantly chasing on the heels of his utterance. Why had he played with fire and shattered what had been going so well?

Harry didn't speak. Not immediately. He barely even seemed to be breathing himself. The passing thought snagged Draco, and he instinctively glanced towards Harry with the irrational thought that he might have somehow stopped breathing altogether.

He hadn't. Barely a foot away, Harry was still there, still aware, still… silent. His chin was slightly tucked, shoulders hitched just a little higher than moments before, his expression solemn and unmoving as though carved from ice. His gaze was fixed on Draco, so wide and attentive, so reminiscent of the countless shots Draco had taken of him and yet somehow so different, too. Wide and attentive, beautiful and captivating.

And lost. More than a little lost.

"I…" Harry began before trailing off.

Draco swallowed. Dryness suddenly afflicted his mouth, but he spoke through it nonetheless. "You have to know," he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended it to be, hoarser than he'd expected. "Surely you have to know how I feel."

"I…" Harry reattempted. His head shook slightly, not in denial but confusion. "I don't."

Draco stared. "How can you not?"

"How could I?" A slight frown creased Harry's brow. When a flutter of wind caught his hair and blew it into his face, he flicked it aside almost angrily. "You never say anything. You've never done anything, either."

Never done anything? What, never acted upon his feelings? Draco grit his teeth, took another deep breath, spared another glance for their distant, almost disappeared entourage, before planting his full attention onto Harry. Harry, who was watching him with his eyes still wide and such blatant, almost childlike ignorance it was infuriating. How could he not know?

"I want you," Draco found himself saying. "How can you not realise that? I've wanted you for years, even if I've only just recently realised it. I –" His voice caught, and Draco growled in frustration for his sudden unintelligibility. "I want to be with you. I asked you to come with me, here, because I want you to – to be –"

He clicked his tongue, jerked his head sideways and cursed under his breath. It wasn't so much that speaking such words were humiliating. It was more that he couldn't. He didn't know how. Draco had never declared his feelings to anyone before, romantically or otherwise. He'd assumed that how he felt on the matter, what his actions spoke for him, had conveyed themselves adeptly enough. Apparently not.

"You do?"

Again with that childlike innocence. Eyeing him sidelong, Draco was horrifyingly struck by just how confused Harry appeared. The deepening of his frown, the way he hunched in upon himself slightly – it was so different to the boy he'd known at school. So different to the man who'd planted himself between Draco and his attackers in an alleyway around the corner from _Syren_ with his wand raised. So different to the flushed, intoxicated face, the panting breath and feverish grasping of hands that flooded Draco's mind whenever he thought of Ipetsky.

Cursing again, Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. Agitation gnawed at him, and it was all he could do not to step backwards, to stride in any aimless direction in a desperate attempt to duck away from a confrontation he'd hoped never to have. Why did feelings have to be admitted? Why – no, _how_ could Harry not have known?

"I do," Draco said, sharper than he'd intended. "I want – I want to –"

"Then why?" Harry snapped his gaze sidelong, a grasping motion as though seeking to latch onto something tangible, a glance entirely different to his prior wistful staring upon the lack. Desperate, and frustrated, and searching for some explanation that Draco wasn't providing. "Then why didn't you just tell me? Draco, if you tell me, I would give it to you. You just have to ask."

Just like that. All at once, just like that, everything within Draco seemed to freeze. The air that swept around them, running fingers through Draco's hair, was chilling. The scent of the lake was sharp and crisp, the shuffle of trees further up the shoreline rising in oblivious whispers. But Draco barely noticed any of it. He had attention only enough for Harry's stare as it swung back towards him and the words that still rested upon his parted lips.

No. That wasn't it. That wasn't what he wanted at all. Draco didn't _want_ that. He didn't want just that. He didn't want Harry to simply give himself to him because he asked, just as he didn't want to take what Ipetsky had stolen before him. What potentially more had stolen, too.

Draco hated the very thought of it. He wanted quiet moments of peace and good company. He wanted louder moments of laughter and smiles, of tongues poked out in taunts and eyes bright with teases. He wanted moments of leaning in casual contact upon couches with legs entwined and fingers linked, and he wanted gentle kisses that demanded no more than a kiss in reply. A kiss that was offered but requested just as much in return.

Sidelong pillows, pointless text messages, and shared glances that spoke more than words – Draco wanted that. The passion and the lust, the caress of warm skin and hot breath, was all a part of that longing, but it wasn't the whole of it. Not even close. Whether it was an idealised hope or something truly attainable, Draco didn't know, but he wanted all of it. And he wanted that with Harry.

What Harry offered, though – what he would give, wasn't that. The simple fact that he offered at all, that "I would give it to you" was offered so readily like a sacrifice rather than an exchange, wasn't that. It hurt more than Draco could have ever anticipated. It hurt in parts of him that he hadn't even known existed.

"Draco?" Harry asked, breaking into the deadened silence of Draco's stagnated mind. "What are you…?"

A hiss of breath escaped Draco's lips. His jaw clenched so tightly that he could hear his teeth creak, and he abruptly decided he wanted to be anywhere but on the edge of a goddamn lake being assaulted by a gentle wind. Yet even the longing to escape wasn't entirely feverish and mindless; Draco wanted to be away, but he couldn't quite bring himself to flee from Harry.

Extending a hand, his fingers curled almost like claws, Draco offered. He wouldn't grab Harry's hand, wouldn't snatch and demand, but he would ask. He'd ask, and if Harry would reply favourably, he'd take it this time.

For a moment, Harry stared at his hand in persisting confusion. Then he extracted his own hand from his pocket, slowly but not warily, and placed it in Draco's. His fingers were still somehow cool, soft and get firm in their grasp, and that firmness was enough that Draco almost winced. Stabbing pains in those parts of him that he didn't understand the nature of hurt more than he'd considered was possible.

Shoving the pain aside, Draco turned on the spot. He pulled Harry after him in a swirl of Apparition, and Harry didn't resist the pull. In a way, Draco almost wished he had.

* * *

Sunset painted the sky in a blossoming array of pink, orange, and blue. The line of the mountains and cliffs, reflected on the glassy spread of the lake beneath, was tinged purple, and the peaks of old buildings, the spires of the towers alongside the chapel bridge, were muted to darkened colours.

Lucerne was beautiful in a way that London wasn't. A foreign, captivating kind of beautiful. And yet for once, Harry barely saw it.

"Draco, could you just stop?" he asked, voice rising to chase after Draco's retreating back.

Wide, grey, cobbled roads. Pedestrians scattered and wandering. The occasional car, a puttering interruption to the evening quietude. Harry spared all of it only the barest sliver of his attention as he hastened in Draco's wake. "Could you slow down at least? Bloody hell, if you're going to go so fast, why not just Apparate back to the hotel?"

Draco didn't turn. Like a sweeping wraith, darkened by shadows himself despite the paleness of his skin and hair, Draco seemed almost to be running for the speed of his steps. Harry had to hasten to nearly a run himself in order to keep up with him, for as soon as they'd hit the cobblestones at the town's central Apparition point, Draco had all but fled. He hadn't looked back nor slowed since.

Harry didn't understand. He couldn't understand what had upset Draco so much, or what exactly he'd said that had caused him to be so angry. Was it even anger? Or frustration, maybe? Some kind of pain or distress? Harry didn't know because he'd only had a moment to attempt to discern just what had struck Draco like a blow across the face before he was all but running from him. If he hadn't taken the time to offer a hand to Harry to drag him into Side-Along Apparition, Harry would have almost let him go.

But he hadn't. He'd brought Harry with him. And now, in the face of his mounting confusion, Harry was left to trail after him and attempt to unravel just what had caused such upheaval.

It was definitely what Harry had said. His own words. His offer. In anyone else, Harry might have thought they were offended by that offer. That he'd made an assumption about intentions, possibly revealed his sexuality to an unwitting clubber and received the recoiling distaste he'd faced in more than a handful of Muggles with barely concealed homophobia. Except that this was Draco, and what he'd said just before that…

 _I want you._

Three words. Three syllables. So simple and yet so weighted with meaning. A part of Harry had been swept aloft in weightless, wonderful delight; Draco wanted him, and that Harry felt that want in return wasn't a secret he bothered hiding to himself anymore. But the other part of him, the bigger part, had shrivelled in unexpected disappointment.

Oh. That. Just that.

Physical beauty was superficial. It was based on instinct, and observable attraction. There wasn't anything wrong with appreciating physical attributes, but it would always remain just that: a superficial attraction. Harry knew that some people viewed him in such a way. He might not be able to see the basis for such attraction himself when he looked in the mirror, but Von told him, and Ginny assured him, and enough fellow models' offhanded compliments and photographers' calculating stares bespoke as much.

In the nightclubs, too. At the bars when a hand drifted down his back, or a figure appeared at his side, their stare visibly heated and shining with want even in the darkness of the club. Those people hadn't been drawn to Harry by his name. They hadn't been attracted by his fame, or his money, or the prospect of dating a model and what for some reason seemed to be a fetish for some people. The pursuit of an unfulfillable ideal.

And yet it was all superficial. It was all seeing, and touching, and sex. Harry liked sex, liked it a lot, for that matter, and the urge to pursue the mindlessness of easy pleasure was sometimes a necessary balm to soothe what was otherwise an incomprehensible itch. But Harry wasn't so blind to pleasure to know that it wasn't enough. Not for him.

Somehow, he'd hoped that it wouldn't be for Draco, either.

 _I want you,_ Draco had said, and the light of his want swum into his gaze. For a moment, Harry had been rendered mute, crushed beneath a wave of disappointment and helplessness. Even Draco. Even from Draco, it was all that was ever asked for. All that was ever wanted.

The debilitating feeling loss, the loss of something he'd never really had to begin with, had lasted only long enough for Harry to steady himself like a sailor balancing on the railing of a stormbound ship. Jumping off the edge to escape it all had momentarily felt so tempting, but he'd withheld. Instead, he'd reached for the thin, feeble rope that had been offered to him as his only lifeline. How long that rope would survive before snapping in half, he didn't know, but he'd take it. He'd take what Draco offered, give him what he asked for, because something was better than nothing – right?

What had gone wrong, Harry didn't know. What he'd said that had apparently upset Draco so badly, he couldn't discern. Harry was left to follow after Draco, to stare at the tight line of Draco's shoulders and feel disappointment and confusion deteriorate into annoyance and aggravation with each step. Even worse was that Draco didn't reply. That in itself was uncharacteristic of him. Draco always rose to the challenge.

"Could you just tell me what's going on?" Harry asked, picking up his pace and managing to fall into step beside Draco. He frowned at Draco's profile, the sharp, impassive lines of his expression and his gaze trained stoically forward. "I can't do a bloody thing about it if you don't explain it to me."

Draco's cheek twitched. That was all. It was slight, barely perceivable, but enough that Harry felt a brief flush of triumph. Draco was listening, even if he wasn't replying.

Picking up his pace slightly, Harry manage to skirt around Draco to plant himself in front of him mid-step. Draco nearly barrelled through him, catching himself only at the last moment to avoid a collision.

"Can you just talk to me?" Harry demanded, glaring up at him with more frustration than he'd felt in a long time. Somehow, Draco always seemed able to coax his anger forth. Harry was hurting, aching from the sting of Draco's words, and _he_ was the one who had to try and make things right? It wasn't fair, but even so, he couldn't let it lie unresolved. Harry had to bloody well try to solve whatever riddle had been afflicted upon him. "I can't fix it if I don't know what's got you flapping around like a crazy peacock."

Draco's lip curled slightly, but all he did was curse, side-step, and attempt to sweep past Harry once more. Harry didn't let him this time; catching onto his elbow, he dug his heels into the road beneath him and hauled Draco to a stop.

"Enough," he snapped as Draco swung back towards him. "This is bullshit. Tell me what's wrong."

"You," Draco abruptly snapped back. His face was pale with more than just the cold, only a twin pair of flushed spots interrupting his cheeks. "You and your bloody – your bloody ignorance. That's what's wrong."

Harry stared at him, gaze darting between Draco's eyes. He didn't care that they were making a scene before the few people on the road around them. He wasn't even sure if anyone was still there to witness it. All he could see was Draco's wide-blown pupils, the tightness around his eyes and the way he clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles visibly bunched.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he demanded. "What -?"

"That," Draco said, flinging his free arm towards Harry in an encompassing gesture. "You don't even realise what it is that you've said!"

"No, I fucking don't," Harry replied, voice rising and hitching. "So explain it to me."

"You don't –" Draco grasped at the air, his hand balling into a fist that he pressed against his forehead as though to stave off a headache. "You don't realise it, and that makes it worse."

"I don't –"

"You don't see me as any different from anyone else, and that's the worst part."

 _What_? Harry's mouth hung open, unspeaking, in momentary confusion, before he scrambled to gather himself. "I don't know what you –"

"I don't just want you to fucking give yourself to me just because I ask for it," Draco snapped, so fiercely that the quaver of pain threaded through it was almost lost. He pinned Harry with a stare that was at once furious and desperate, so unlike the reserved and withdrawn man he presented to the world every single day. "I don't want to be like the rest of them!"

Words died in Harry's mouth. Whatever he'd meant to say was washed aside as though it had never existed in the first place. Staring at Draco, the words hanging in his ears, for a moment Harry was at a complete loss. His anger dissolved. His frustration was swiftly waned. Even his annoyance dwindled into nothingness.

What? What had he just said? What did he mean by –? "The rest of them?"

Draco all but glared at Harry for a moment before closing his eyes. He butted his fist against his forehead, not hard enough that Harry felt the urge to stop him but enough that it seemed to be with intent. Slow, deliberate knocks, measured and focused. It was about the only steady part of Draco at that moment.

"Ipetsky," Draco said, all by spitting the word out. "And anyone else that you – that you've been with. Or the people who look at you like that – like you're a goddamn piece of meat that they can just have." His voice was strained, a reflection of the tightening of his face. "I don't want to be like that. I just want you. All of you. And I want you to want me, too."

Harry couldn't breathe. He thought he might have forgotten how to. He'd almost flinched at Draco's words, at the truth of them, just as he had the accusations they'd exchanged over lunch barely days before, but he withheld. He managed to overlook the stinging burn it provoked in the face of the greater surprise. The greater importance.

"You… want me," he echoed, barely more than a whisper. The same words, but it meant something different this time. Something that wasn't really just 'want' at all.

Draco peeled his eyes open. A trembling mixture of emotions flickered across his face before he managed to smooth it all into a mask that wasn't quite complete. "I do," he said. "Because I… I care about you."

Draco Malfoy cared. It should have been astounding to hear, almost laughable, except that it wasn't. It definitely wasn't when Harry all but quivered before the echoing sigh of agreement within himself. Wanting wasn't caring. Not really. Or it wasn't usually, because somehow, in this instance, Draco seemed to have crossed the two wires. Somehow and yet perfectly so.

"You want me," Harry murmured again.

"I do," Draco said. The words escaped in a sigh, almost defeated.

"Not like Sammy, or –"

"Definitely not. Not like him. Merlin help me, please, not like him."

Harry's breath hitched. His gaze lowered to where he still held Draco's arm. Even through his jacket, he felt somehow warmed by the contact. Warm enough that he could barely feel the wind that was picking up pace around them.

"No," he said. "You're not like them at all." Raising his gaze, Harry caught and held Draco's, stare for stare, as Draco finally lowered his fist from his forehead. His resignation seemed to have banished any ability to hold tension in his expression. That mask crumbled away piece by piece, a feeble attempt that hadn't really a hope of being maintained in the first place.

Harry was glad to see it leave. He traced the lines of Draco's face with his eyes. The straight line of his nose and the sharper lines of his jaw. The arc of his cheekbones, the barest shadows upon his cheeks, and the darkness surrounding his eyes a product of the fading sun that somehow made his returning stare all the more intent. The urge to run his hand across his pink-flushed cheek, grazing his fingers through Draco's hair and cupped his head gently, softly, was almost too much too resist.

"You like me," Harry said, a reality that he'd known when it was superficial but only then realised was also far deeper than that.

Draco released a heavy breath, his head hanging slightly as though defeated. "I do. A lot."

A smile crept its way onto Harry's lips. How quickly a moment could change, from anger and confusion to swelling euphoria and feverish delight. The sun was sinking but the evening somehow seemed brighter than it had been at midday.

"Me too," Harry said, smile widening as Draco flickered his eyes up towards him. "I like you, too. A whole lot."

Falling prey to the urge to do so, Harry finally raised a hand to the side of Draco's face. He almost expected Draco to pull away from him, to flinch as though repulsed or to frown with a bout of confusion, but he didn't. Instead, his eyes widened, lips parting and breath hissing with a sharp inhalation.

"Can I kiss you?" Harry asked, detachedly aware that it was probably the only time such words had ever passed from his mouth.

Draco's breath hissed again. His hand rose to press against Harry's, holding his fingers against his cheek. "I don't want to just take it from you," he said, his voice warbling slightly in such an un-Malfoy way and yet somehow so fitting of Draco. "Not unless you want me to. I… I want you to want me too."

Harry smiled. Wide and freeing, he couldn't help himself from all but grinning like a fool. Such simple words, and in the sea of good and bad pick-up lines, open flirtatiousness and exaggerated compliments, they were the most romantic that Harry had ever heard. He gave into the urge to step across the distance between them and, closing his eyes, captured Draco's lips in his own.

He was warm. He was soft. He was still, and then he wasn't at all, his lips parting in response, his own hand rising to curl around the back of Harry's head. Harry sunk against him, breathed him in, tasted him, and all but clung to him with the sudden urge to never let go. Even when he drew away just slightly with the parting of lips and the catch of breath, prying his eyes open to peer into Draco's face standing so close that he couldn't see anything but grey eyes and pale skin, Harry couldn't loosen his hold upon him.

Draco's stared right back at him. He smiled, slow and wide, and Harry's own blossomed once more. Even in the face of the beauty of Lucerne's sunset, it was the most breath-taking thing he'd ever seen.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: I can't see a huge amount of need for it, but just a WARNING to anyone who might find it uncomfortable reading descriptions of sexual situations in this chapter. And fluff. So, so much fluff, it's practically drowning in it. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

Draco was barely scraping the surface of wakefulness when a brush of warmth trailed across the back of his neck. Warmth, and then a touch of cold, more solid than the insubstantial touch of that preceding. Even before his mind fully registered what it was, what it could be, he found himself smiling.

Eyes squinting open to peer between heavy lids, Draco half turned his head to make a poor attempt at peering over his shoulder. "Are you awake?"

"Mm."

Draco smile widened a fraction. "How long?"

"A little while."

Another whisper of warmth curled like a tendril of ribbon against Draco's skin as Harry gave a small sigh. Then he tipped his head into the back of Draco's neck once more and that touch of coldness returned, a blatant contrast to the warmth enveloping the bed.

"Is that your nose?" Draco asked.

"Mm."

"Cold even though it's so warm?"

"Mm. And my toes." As evidence, Harry pressed his feet up against the back of Draco's legs. They were nearly as cold as his nose, and the hairs stood up in a rippling wave to Draco's nape, but he didn't protest. If anything, the slight shock to his sleepy lethargy roused him more fully. He didn't think he'd ever been more delighted to awaken in his life.

Rolling over, dragging his cocoon of blankets with him as he did so, Draco turned into Harry and flopped at arm over his shoulders. Even before he caught a glimpse of Harry's face he was pulling him towards himself, tucking his head against his shoulder in what was more of an embrace than anything but could possibly be explained away as being an effort to keep him warm.

Not that Draco needed to explain anything. _I can do this_ , he thought, tipping his chin to rest against the side of Harry's head. He closed his eyes, though he didn't think he could fall back to sleep even if he'd wanted to. _I can have this._

"Are you trying to smother me to death?" Harry asked, the amusement in his question muffled against Draco's skin.

"Yes. You've discovered my dastardly plan. Seduce you so that I can suffocate you in a hug."

"You terrible person, Draco."

"Well, I am a villain. Haven't you read the papers?"

Harry huffed a little laugh into Draco's shoulder before drawing away from him slightly. Draco allowed it, would never not allow it, though left his arm draped over Harry. Because he could. Because he wanted to, and he was able to.

Harry tilted his face up to him, a smile playing upon his lips and adding a dimple to his cheek. There were still pillow lines on his face, but his eyes were bright enough that he really must have been awake for some time already.

"I knew it," he said, a teasing edge to his words. "You always were a wily one, Malfoy."

"What, are you scared, Potter?" Draco couldn't help but ask.

Harry's smile widened with a flash of tease. "You wish."

Any further teasing was lost in effect when Harry raised a hand to Draco's face and drew a feather-light finger across his cheek, up to his brow to flick aside his fringe with a gentle swipe. Draco leant into the touch, couldn't help but close his eyes against briefly simply to revel in the feeling of it. When Harry grazed his fingers along the side of his head, Draco turned his face into his palm and brushed his lips across the soft, warm skin that was offered to him. Given. That touched because Harry wanted to touch.

There was so much that still needed to be said. Even after the previous day, after confessions flung and quietly voiced alike, after stares that spoke more than words and touches that fulfilled them, there was still so much that needed to be said. Draco longed to ask even as he was scared to: where did they stand? What did this make them now? What were they to one another, and just how deep did it go?

And, most importantly, because Draco couldn't believe it simply himself: _Can you possibly care for me as much as I do for you?_

It seemed so impossible. So inexplicable. So sudden and yet not sudden in the least, because somehow, it also felt inevitable. That Draco could care for Harry – no, not care, for it seemed something more than that. That he could feel so strongly after barely a few months of working together, months of watching and learning, of understanding what made him Harry and seeing the person beneath the model, beneath the hero, and beneath the school rivalry that they'd once had.

Draco had always felt strongly for Harry, if in a vastly different way. Was it even possible for Harry to feel a glimmer of that same intensity?

"You're thinking too hard."

Opening his eyes, Draco turned from where Harry's hand still cupped his face. He rested his head down upon the pillow, barely a hand's breadth away from Harry's and close enough the he could make out the individual hairs in Harry's eyelashes, the chips of multihued green in his eyes that had always fascinated Draco but that he'd never had the opportunity to observe at length. Never so closely.

Harry's eyes flickered briefly up to Draco's brow, and his fingers shifted to smooth the wrinkle of frown that Draco hadn't really noticed had settled. "What's wrong?"

Draco let his concerns be wiped away, even if only for a time. It was pointless to think of such things, and especially at that moment. Especially after the previous night and especially given that, even then, Harry shifted slightly closer to him in the bed they'd only just decided was definitely big enough to share.

"Nothing's wrong," he murmured.

Harry's eyebrow twitched. "Yeah. Right."

"There's not. My mind is simply getting ahead of itself."

Harry hummed thoughtfully. He settled his own head a little more comfortably against his pillow, hand returning to raking gently along the side of Draco's head. It was soothing and strangely intimate in a way that Draco had never experienced before. No one had ever touched him like that.

"Me too," Harry murmured. "Even after yesterday… even after it all, I can't help but wonder."

"You shouldn't," Draco said, maybe a little more vehemently than was necessary. But he couldn't help himself. He didn't really want to hold it back. "You shouldn't worry about such things. It's not a passing fancy, I swear. Not for me. And it's not just lust, because it's –"

Draco stuttered off, the tripping of his tongue suddenly turned shy. Despite what he'd revealed only the evening before, it felt like a whole new ordeal to be repeating himself in the bright light of day. It made it more real, more lasting, and Harry's open attentiveness even more so.

"I know," Harry said slowly. "Or I think I know. I'd like it to be, from you, because – because I do too."

He'd heard it before. Essentially, Draco had heard it only the previous day. But just as it felt different speaking his own feelings aloud that morning, if felt different hearing Harry's, too.

A tight pain that wasn't at all bad squeezed Draco's chest and he couldn't help but lean towards Harry and capture his lips with his own. There was no hesitation in Harry's response; he sunk into the kiss with ready willingness, drinking Draco in as his fingers abandoned their gentle touches to instead loop his arm around Draco's neck.

That they drew towards one another, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs intertwining, felt so utterly natural. Draco lost himself in Harry's warmth, in the brief hint of coldness from his toes, in the way he felt, and smelt, and tasted. When Harry drew away from him slightly – just a fraction, his arms still comfortably locked around Draco – even that was worth it for he had the chance to look at him, to trace the contours of his face absent of the smears of makeup and editing.

 _He really is beautiful_ , Draco thought to himself. _No wonder he's adored. A figurehead who's strong, and courageous, but beautiful as well is…_

Snorting at himself and his foolishness, Draco tipped his forehead lightly against Harry's. "I like you," he found himself murmuring, so inadequate and yet so perfectly truthful that Draco could almost feel the memory of his childhood antagonism and his resentment shriek in distress. It was made no less starkly jarring by having already admitted to his feelings the day before.

Harry's silent laugh flicked him with another ribbon of warmth. "Funny," he murmured in reply. "I kind of like you too. Good to know we're on the same page."

So simple. Maybe too simple. But it felt, sounded, tasted so perfect as Harry's breath touched Draco's lips that he wouldn't have it any other way. Draco lost himself in Harry's kisses, his arms, and the warmth of him as he pressed against him in return with a sore and desperate need.

Not that it lasted long. In a fluid movement, Harry looped a leg over him to straddle his hips. He settled himself comfortably – a little too comfortably in Draco's opinion – and he must have known what such the sight of him, what his weight and the brief canting of his hips, was doing to Draco even before Draco uttered a groan through slightly trembling lips. His smile was knowing as he leant towards Draco and bestowed a chaste but lingering kiss upon him. Then he pushed himself upright and started rocking his hips against, and there was little else Draco could do but grasp his thighs in an effort not to buck against him.

His efforts didn't last long. More than likely Harry hadn't intended them to.

Draco hadn't known of the complexities of sex between men. Or he'd known theoretically, but practicality was different. He hadn't known until Harry told him just how naïve it was to consider it easy, or simple, or just 'doing it' because they wanted to. He hadn't known the degree of preparation, even if people like Blaise in the throes of his crudest moments had done their best to explain it to him.

He hadn't known how bloody good it could be, either.

When Harry slicked himself up, when he grasped Draco's arousal and pumped him twice with a fistful of lube, Draco was a lost cause. He hooked his hands up around Harry's hips instead, blood and lust and want thundering in his ears as a rising pace, and only had the headspace to as a short, "May I?" before intelligibility abandoned him.

Harry, his beautiful smile spreading – a smile that Draco could look at, was allowed to gaze upon, was allowed to stare at and touch and taste – answered by taking Draco into himself with a slow, steady, measured slide. His sigh that was almost a moan coiled through the thumping in Draco's ears, his head tipping backwards and eyes closing, and if Draco wasn't gone before that he had little chance thereafter.

It was a slow, undulating coupling, far removed from what had become frantic and desperate the night before. Draco thrust upwards and into him, and Harry rolled his hips and met him with each motion, his gasped breaths and low murmurs of Draco's name as intoxicating as his weight atop of him. It was gradual, and blissful, and awash with spreading warmth that radiated from Draco's groin and down to his very toes.

Until it wasn't.

Draco couldn't grasp his hands in enough places. Or he didn't have enough hands, maybe. He curled his fingers around Harry's hips as he thrust into him, as his pace hitched uncontrollably, his thighs, his waist, reaching for Harry's hand as Harry pressed himself further onto him and reached for Draco's shoulder to steady himself. His own gasps, his own desperate murmurs, matched Harry's, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open in an effort not to miss a second of flushed cheeks and bright, lust-blown eyes, Harry's lips parted and wet with Draco's kisses.

It might have been slow, could have been, but Draco couldn't help himself. When his urgency mounted, his sharp thrusts not enough, to the sound of his irrepressible groan, he hooked an arm around Harry's waist and rolled him until he was pinned beneath him. He felt Harry's breath puff against his face with the motion, felt Harry's arms loop around him in return and his legs hook around his back, before he spared no further moment for thought and fell prey to the heat, and desperation, and urgency throbbing through him. With only half a mind for practicality, Draco adjusted himself over Harry, pulled Harry's hips up and against him, and drove into him. His mouth unerringly found Harry's neck and the heated moan he managed to elicit was a heady draught inhaled too quickly.

Draco had had sex before, but this was different. This was a mindless, encompassing, frantic battle of want and need that he could barely control.

Harry didn't mind. He didn't protest. But more than that, more importantly, he wanted it in return. He held Draco, pulled him towards him, into him, and wrapped himself around him with just as much clinging demand to erase any inch of space between them as Draco did himself. If Draco had been plagued by any second thoughts, his qualms would have been eased with each thrust as Harry gasped and moaned, as he murmured "Draco" amidst feverish, stuttered encouragement. As he tightened his legs around Draco, holding him even closer, as he grasped Draco's shoulders with fingers digging into muscle almost painfully, as he arched against Draco with each motion, tightening around him in a seizing rush of pleasure –

That pleasure, the longing and almost violent need, was glorious. But it was made all the more so for the fact that it was found with Harry, and that Harry wanted Draco. He _wanted_ him. There was surely nothing more wondrous than that. Draco sunk into everything that Harry offered and would have been content to never untangle himself again.

* * *

Sliding his glasses onto his nose, Harry took a moment to ruffle his damp hair before smoothing it as best he could – which wasn't saying a whole lot, but it was better than nothing. Between his oversized hoodie, his too-long slacks, and his general state of unkemptness, he knew that Von would have all but had a fit. That in itself would have usually been enough for Harry to make more of an effort.

Not that day, however. At that moment, standing alone in the bathroom still thick with steam and his skin prickling with the warmth of the shower, Harry couldn't bring himself to care all that much. Not when every part of him felt like it was buzzing with charged electricity.

Sparing a final reflexive glance towards the fogged mirror – habit made it impossible not to these days – Harry turned from the room. It might have been a little embarrassing to catch himself wearing such an unshakeable smile, but he didn't care about that, either. He couldn't. The cause for the warmth cascading in endless waves from his chest to his fingers and toes lay just outside the bathroom door, and pausing long enough to adopt a public face, an unnecessary façade, was irrational. Illogical.

Besides, it wasted time. Harry had already taken more than enough time in the shower.

Stepping from the room, he shivered slightly as the fog and warmth diffused down the cool hallway. The sound of the air conditioning powered overhead, but it hadn't yet managed to take the chill off the morning. It was that chill that had kept Harry in bed for so long that morning as it was; only Draco's commitment to his work had coaxed him from their shared blankets.

It had been a near thing, though. Draco claimed he was just about tempted into passing the entire day between the sheets. His reluctance to rise was emphasised when he'd wrapped himself around Harry, stealing his lips and his breath all at once in a kiss so deep it seemed to reach into Harry's lungs. It was only with much grumbling that he'd hauled himself from the bed.

The clatter of cutlery and crockery met him as Harry poked his head from the mouth of the hallway. Sweeping a glance across the sunlit suite, he zeroed in on Draco seated at the table, the spread of room-service breakfast before him and the steam of tea tangling amidst that of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. As ever, the sight of that much food niggled at the part of Harry that clung to his diet with rigorous compulsion, but it was less demanding that day. Certainly when Draco paused with his teacup half raised to his mouth and smiled at him.

He was gorgeous. Truly and utterly. From the perfect lines of his face to the sweep of his eyelashes, the gentle curl of his hair still slightly damp from his own shower, the arch of his eyebrows and the line of his sharp shoulders set in the same perfect posture that Harry had always known him to possess. He could have been the muse for a sculptor, the inspiration behind countless artworks, or perhaps even rendered in a stone cast of immaculate creation itself. Except that morning there was nothing cool or hard about him; he glowed with a soft warmth that Harry hadn't seen of him before, riding upon the curl of his smile, how wide it spread, how it was just for Harry. How Harry knew what it tasted like and just how paradoxically soft yet firm his kisses were.

"I thought you'd drowned in there," Draco drawled, lowering his teacup. "I was tempted to come in to fetch you with a fishing net."

Harry hummed as he padded across the room, running another hand through his hair before shaking out his fingers. He didn't miss that Draco followed the gesture with hooded-eyed attentiveness. "Not today. Maybe you could join me some other time, though. When you've got a bit longer than an hour to get ready in the morning, that is."

Draco arched an eyebrow, catching onto the suggestiveness of Harry's words without necessary emphasis. It was almost funny how readily he understood, how readily Harry understood in return, given their confusion the evening before. How everything made so much more sense. Perfect sense, even.

"I'd be more than happy to oblige," Draco said, twisting in his seat so that he was sitting sidelong in his chair. "If you want me there."

Had Harry not already been smiling, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from doing so. As it was, he felt his smile unfold into a grin. There was something so profoundly wonderful about the meaning behind Draco's words. _If you want me there_. Because Draco cared. He cared just as much if not more about what Harry wanted than his own desires, and that meant something so vast that Harry almost couldn't conceive it. He didn't know what he could possibly say in return.

So he didn't try. Instead, Harry crossed the room and let actions speak for him. Stopping before Draco, so close that their knees touched, he cupped Draco's head in his hands, tilted his chin upwards, and dropped a caress of a kiss upon his lips. The action was so new and unfamiliar yet felt so natural that Harry all but sighed into it.

"Looking forward to it," he murmured against Draco's lips.

The hum Draco offered in return was so multi-layered with longing and sincerity that it tingled against Harry's lips. It was only added to by the slide of his hands around Harry's waist, his thumbs hooking into his waistband not with insinuation but simply to hold. Just to have that contact of skin on skin without the thin barrier of Harry's slacks.

That meant something too. It meant something that only added to the blossoming warmth in Harry's chest. How much had changed in just a day…

Harry would have been content to remain like that for the rest of the morning. More than content; he thought he would have quite liked to, actually. But Draco had work, and Harry wasn't so blinded by his own wants that he would ask Draco to compromise. Not for this.

Instead, he took a step backwards and sunk into the chair directly next to Draco's own. Just as reluctantly, Draco let him go, unhooking his hands from his waist and turning back to the table and breakfast. "I can't imagine today will be as long as they've been until now," he said, picking up his tea once more. "Blessedly."

"Don't pretend you don't love it," Harry said, smiling for an entirely different reason this time. _I know you do,_ he thought to himself. _I like that I know you do._ That kind of knowledge hadn't even occurred to him as being exceptional before. It hadn't struck him as being something so wonderful to possess.

"I do," Draco said. "Though not as much as photography. And developing images isn't anywhere near as satisfying as using a darkroom, but –"

"You've used a darkroom before?" Harry asked, pausing in the act of pouring his own tea.

Draco gave a satisfied little smile. "I have. Or I do."

"Often?"

"Less often than I'd like, and not for a while."

"That would be cool to see," Harry murmured to himself, dropping his gaze to his tea. He'd never been in a darkroom before. Photographer business had always seemed like just that: not his own.

"I could show you some time," Draco said, recapturing his attention. His smile widened slightly as Harry blinked up at him, momentarily surprised. "We could consider it a date of sorts."

Harry stared for a moment before uttering a huff of laughter. A date. Dating, and relationships, and 'what it all means'. It was something so surreal. They hadn't spoken of it in the brief moments of lucidity throughout the night and into the morning, but somehow it seemed almost foolish to hold such a conversation. As though they were so far beyond that already that it wasn't even worth their time.

"I'll hold you to that," Harry said instead, smiling contentedly to himself as he poured the rest of his tea.

They ate in relative quietness, Draco wordlessly handing Harry a bowl of fruit even if his questioning, "That's all?" was very pointed. Harry only shrugged; it wasn't the time to discuss such things, nor to attempt to convince Draco as he did Hermione and just about everyone else that a strict diet it was all a part and parcel of his job. It wasn't worth it, and Harry was too sated to want to start an argument about it. Draco, apparently, was of the same mind.

Not today. Maybe another time, with time that they had, but not today.

The sun was streaming across the dining table, capping the distant cliffs visible from the eastern window, by the time Harry lowered his fork to the table. At his side, Draco was sipping through his second cup of tea, half-turned in his seat towards Harry once more and regarding him quietly.

Watching. Just watching. Not with lust or open desire, nor flooded with questions or demands. Not even with the clinical air of a professional eyeing their subject as Harry had seen him regard the models over the previous few days. This was different. This was softer, somehow, almost gentle. Before he'd worked with him on his own shoot, Harry doubted he would have thought it possible for Draco Malfoy to appear so human. Now, he couldn't imagine an expression more suited to him

When Harry muffled a yawn with the back of his hand, Draco's lips twitched. Propping an elbow onto the table, his head onto his knuckles, he extended his free hand and brushed it against the back of Harry's. It felt like the most natural thing in the world for Harry to flip his hand and link their fingers. Perfectly natural.

"Tired?" Draco asked.

"Mm."

"Sorry."

Harry snorted. "For what, exactly? You didn't make me do anything I wasn't wholly invested in."

Draco's smile grew. "I know," he said, something almost disbelieving in his tone.

Harry huffed another sigh of laughter. Shaking his head, he squeezed Draco's fingers gently. "How about you? You're the one who has to actually work. I'm practically on holiday here."

"Holidaying by accompanying me to work?" Draco said.

Harry shrugged.

"That's not much of a holiday."

Harry shrugged again, absently flicking Draco's fingers with his thumb. He had beautiful fingers. Long and thin, perfect for dancing around the head of a camera. Perfect for caressing skin too, as Harry was abruptly all too aware of.

"I enjoy it," he said. Then, because it was true, "I think I just enjoy being with you and watching you, to be honest. Even if it's from a distance. I think… yeah, I think I've enjoyed that for a while. Even when we were working together."

Draco gazed at him for a long moment, his smile shrinking but somehow not lessening in its warmth. Shaking his head slightly, he raised Harry's hand to his lips and planted a kiss on his fingers. His breath was warm, almost like a caress in itself. "Me too," he said simply before planting another kiss. "But even so, you said yesterday that you'd never been on a holiday."

Harry hummed in placid affirmation. At Draco's glance, he raised a shoulder. "I've never really had the time."

Draco grunted flatly. "Well, in that case, we'll make time."

"Later?"

"Today, provided you're not too tired."

"Provided _you're_ not too tired," Harry said, raising their clasped hands to butt his knuckles against Draco's chin.

Draco scrunched his nose. It was an unexpectedly adorable expression, and Harry couldn't help but nudge the end of his nose himself. It felt entirely natural, entirely perfect, to do so. "I'm fine," Draco said. "I'd rather enjoy myself with you, to be honest."

Harry smiled. "Then we'll go into the town. Maybe to more than just a restaurant?"

"Most definitely. We could visit the Nine Towers for their lookouts, seeing as you like the view of the lake so much. Though I've heard it's quite a trek in some instances."

Harry's smile widened. "I'd like that. Or maybe, if we have a chance, some of the churches?"

Draco nodded, and though he'd been the one to suggest the towers, his interest visibly piqued at the suggestion. "Jesuit Church in particular. Certainly."

"And maybe the Glacier Garden?" Harry suggested. At Draco's quizzical glance, he waved his free hand vaguely. "Josef, the receptionist – he mentioned them the other day. When Madame Clementine met you in the foyer, remember?" At Draco's nod and shrug, he added, "He said they were a bit of a hit for tourists or whatever."

Draco nodded again slowly, considering. "It's a shame, really," he murmured, resting his head back onto his hand. "Already being in Switzerland, it's a real shame that you couldn't go around and properly sightsee."

"A shame just for me?" Harry asked. "I wasn't aware you'd been to Lucerne before."

"I haven't," Draco said. "But I've travelled elsewhere, and not just in the past few years." He hummed to himself, a slight crease appearing between his eyebrows. "The _Chateau de Chillon_ in Montreux is one of the oldest Wizarding castles in the country, you know. Witches and wizards are given ready access to it as a form of visitation right. If you could go…"

Harry tucked his chin, though didn't really bother to hide his smile. Just the thought of being considered was enough. Surreal, and a little uncomfortable when it came from someone other than Ron, or Hermione, or Ginny, but special. "I don't mind," he said quietly. "Besides, who knows? Maybe I'll get itchy feet after this and want to take a break from work to travel the world or whatever."

He spoke in jest, but Draco didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. Instead, he tipped his head curiously, regarding Harry as though he were a puzzle that had suddenly grown intensely interesting. "Would you?" he asked.

Harry blinked. "Would I what?"

"Want to travel."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, then paused. He'd never really thought about it. Not ever. It had always been one restriction after the other placed upon him, one barrier to even considering it following the last. Living with the Dursleys, school at Hogwarts, the war, and then after that the interviews, the fame he'd never wanted, the job that had been handed to him yet somehow seemed to cocoon him in tangling, clinging shrouds more tightly than any of those constraints preceding it.

When he considered it, properly thinking about it, Harry supposed he might. He might like to, even if it felt a little wrong. Wrong to leave, to all but abandon the Wizarding world and his responsibility to it, to disappear and inevitably cause upheaval just as the few times he'd had to lie low in the past years had proved always happened.

But if he could… if he really could…

"I couldn't," Harry said. At Draco's slight, questioning frown, he smiled ruefully. "I don't know if I could just up and leave my duties behind. Baby steps, Draco. I couldn't leave just because I wanted to."

"Then –" Draco paused. He pressed his lips together and cleared his throat before continuing. "Then what if I asked you to?"

Harry blinked again. "What?"

"What if…" Again, Draco cleared his throat, jostling Harry's hand in his own in a way that was somehow awkward. Somehow bashful. "What if I said I wanted to leave, to take a holiday, and asked you to come with me? Only if you wanted to," he hastened to add just as Harry opened his mouth. "But what if I did?"

Harry stared at him. He watched as Draco shifted in his seat, as though discomforted sitting in the wake of his question. He watched as Draco cast a glance across the room, bit his bottom lip, before forcibly releasing it and turning back to Harry. He was still staring when Draco gave a frustrated little sigh and shook his captured hand with a slightly more forceful jostle. "Well?"

"Are you asking me to go on a holiday with you?" Harry asked slowly, the urge to smile again tickling his lips.

He gave another shuffling shift in his seat, but Draco didn't hesitate in nodding. "I am. I don't really have any ideas of where to go, but yes, I think a holiday is much needed. Long overdue, too, and given that I've just finished a job that has amounted to a rather large sum of money…"

Harry didn't bother trying to withhold his delight anymore. He couldn't if he'd wanted to. The weight of a duty he'd held for years, a duty he'd disregarded – briefly, only briefly – to accompany Draco to Switzerland, still sat upon his shoulders, but it felt somehow easier to bear with Draco's offer. With his suggestion. With his request – no, his invitation. It was an invitation that didn't demand Harry take it but was sincere and heartfelt all the same. It made it somehow alright.

 _It's not just for me,_ it said, even if it sort of was. _I want this, but it's not just for me._ It made it just a little easier to consider as a real possibility rather than a wistful passing thought.

Harry didn't reply. Not with words. But he thought from the way Draco immediately responded to his sudden lean across the table, pressing their lips together and drawing Draco towards him, that his answer was clear enough.

* * *

A/N: I know this was a short chapter - sorry - but I have the next one up and posted, so be sure to check it out if you get the chance. Please let me know your thoughts too if you have a second! I love your reviews!


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

 _"_ _Hi, Dorothea."_

"Harry. You're doing well?"

 _"_ _Yeah, I'm – yeah. I'm fine."_

"Are you enjoying your holiday?"

 _"_ _I am, actually."_

"Good."

 _"_ _So…"_

"Was this an effort to touch base?"

 _"_ _Sort of."_

"You were given a handful of weeks, Harry. You don't have any need to contact the agency to let us know of your whereabouts. Or at least not for my peace of mind, though I do believe Von is distressed by your absence. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself even though he is being torn between two alternative jobs at the moment."

 _"_ _Sorry."_

"Don't apologise to me. Apologise to him."

 _"_ _I will. I'm… I'm going to call him in a bit. Just to tell him."_

"Tell him?"

 _"_ _I'm, um…"_

"You're being remarkably cryptic. It's unlike you."

 _"_ _Sorry."_

"Don't apologise. You haven't done anything wrong."

 _"_ _Yet."_

"… Meaning?"

 _"_ _I'm going away for a little bit. For – for probably more than a handful of weeks."_

"…"

 _"_ _With, um. With Draco."_

"…"

 _"_ _We were going to make a – a bit of a trip out of it, seeing as we're already practically holidaying. It's only one step beyond that, you know? And given the timing and circumstances in that London's basically Chosen One crazy at the moment – and I know I'm leaving you with the clean-up, and I feel kind of bad about that, but… but since I'm not really able to work without people cracking their shit, I just thought… And you know I've never really been away anywhere overseas so the opportunity is –"_

"Harry."

 _" –_ _almost too much to miss – sorry. Um, yes?"_

"You're going abroad?"

 _"_ _I mean, I technically already am –"_

"Harry."

 _"_ _Sorry. Yes. Yes, I am."_

"With Draco Malfoy."

 _"_ _Y-yes."_

"Do you have any idea of how long you'll be gone?"

 _"_ _Um… not… really?"_

"…"

 _"_ _If – if I can't do it, or I need to be back by a certain time, Dot, just let me know and I –"_

"What have I told you about calling me Dot?"

 _"_ _Right. Dorothea."_

"I think this is a good thing."

 _"_ _I'm… what?"_

"Yes. Yes, it's probably good timing, though I'll admit a part of me begrudges the opportunities missed. But those opportunities will just as likely put you unfavourably in the spotlight and potentially lead to incidents that are better avoided. You're right; Chosen One Fever lingers at the moment."

 _"_ _Wait, so you mean -?"_

"Call Von. Let him know what's going on and keep him updated so he'd not poking his head through my door like a lost puppy every other minute asking if you've called. It's a little bit pathetic."

 _"_ _So you're –"_

"And keep me updated as well. I don't need to know where you're going or where you've been because I don't really care. Just make sure you're safe. And avoid publicity stunts. And don't act in any way that might reflect poorly upon the agency."

 _"_ _Of… of course I won't."_

"And let me know when you'll be returning. Ideally, after a while, when the interviews have all been published and the Wizarding world in particular has time to calm down, you will be able to return without having to look over your shoulder for potential harassment. We'll see about doing a follow-up series when the time comes."

 _"_ _I…"_

"What?"

 _"_ _You really mean that? I can go?"_

"I'm not your gaoler, Harry. Neither am I your mother, or your caretaker. You're a grown adult who has had little enough time to properly live in your life. Don't paint me as a more heartless person than I am."

 _"_ _I didn't… I don't mean… It's just that work is –"_

"Work will survive without you for a time."

 _"…"_

"Is that all?"

 _"_ _Is that…? Yeah. Um – yeah. That's all."_

"Alright. Then enjoy your holiday. I'll expect semi-regular updates if you would."

 _"_ _Right. Thanks, Dot."_

"What did I just say to you about that name?"

 _"_ _Sure. I'll remember for next time. See you later."_

"Safe travels, Harry."

Dot wasn't the one to end the call. When intermittent beeps replaced Harry's voice, she stared at the desk for a long moment in thoughtful silence. The ticking of her analogue clock on the wall was a steady companion, the only disruption to her quietude.

Many thought Dot was a hard woman, and they would be right. Many thought she was career driven, merciless, and rigorous in her approach to life and her expectations of others. They were right too. Dot was hard, and demanding, and generally unapproachable even to those who knew her best. She had been an agent of _Estallas en Ascenso_ for fifteen years and even her superiors skirted around her with wariness.

In many ways Dot appreciated their aversion. It was far easier to go about her day when those around her didn't interrupt her for inane conversation, or to share a joke. Dot knew that many within the agency doubted she even still had the facial muscles remaining to enable her to laugh.

But as Dot slowly hung up her phone, she allowed herself a smile. It didn't matter so much, because there was no one to catch her in the act.

* * *

"Excuse me? What did you just say?"

 _"_ _Oh, I'm sorry, are you going deaf? I hadn't realised."_

"Cut the crap, Draco. What do you mean you're going away?"

 _"_ _I believe such a statement generally entails holidaying. Perhaps I'm mistaken?"_

"So you're – you're going… on a holiday?"

 _"_ _Yes."_

"To where?"

 _"_ _It hasn't been decided yet."_

"And you're going with…?"

 _"_ _With Harry, yes."_

"With Harry…? You fucking bastard."

 _"_ _Excuse me?"_

"You didn't."

 _"_ _What?"_

"You didn't, you – Fuck, Draco, you did, didn't you?"

 _"_ _I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to when you speak so vaguely."_

"You fucked him!"

 _"_ _You're disgusting."_

"I'm not – Blaise, fuck off, get out of my face. No, it's my phone. If you want to ask him something, call him yourself. No. _No_. Go away."

 _"_ _Hello, Blaise."_

"I'm not telling him that for you."

 _"_ _Are you both having fun? Getting sloshed every night? Just how much of Blaise's cellars have you worked your way through, Pansy?"_

"Don't try and distract me from the matter at hand."

 _"_ _Are you perhaps drunk at the moment? It's a little early for that, isn't it? The time difference between Switzerland and Italy is non-existent, Pansy, so I can't say I approve of –"_

"Oh, shut up. You did, didn't you?"

 _"…"_

"Draco?"

 _"…"_

"Your silence is very telling."

 _"_ _Actually, it's telling you nothing."_

"Don't be an asshole. Did you?"

 _"_ _It worries me that the aspect of my relationship that you're most concerned about is my sex life. Shame on you, Pansy."_

"What, that's not important to you?"

 _"_ _I didn't say that. I only mean that there are more important things."_

"Oh, Merlin."

 _"_ _What?"_

"You mean you…? God help us all."

 _"_ _Are you having a stroke?"_

"I mean, when you were so down and pining I suspected, but…"

 _"…"_

"You fell really hard, huh?"

 _"_ _I suppose you could say that."_

"Should I begin organising the wedding already, or should I wait until you get back from your trip to Neverland?"

 _"_ _You're hilarious."_

"In which part, exactly? Because if the pair of you haven't killed one another in five years time –"

 _"_ _Killed one another?"_

"- then you'll be married. No doubt. And yes, killed one another. If you'll recall, you used to be at one another's throats back in our school days, and not in the kinky way."

 _"_ _Yes, I do recall…"_

"The fact that you sound so happy saying that is very disturbing, Draco."

 _"_ _You know, I've heard it said that those on the outside of relationships are most aggressive predominantly because of their jealousy."_

"Jealous? Me? Of your ability to go traipsing around willy-nilly, throwing money and caution to the wind –"

 _"_ _How often in the past half a decade have I had enough money to throw to the wind?"_

"And yet you decide to go on an intercontinental road trip?"

 _"_ _Yes. I have priorities."_

"You're pathetic."

 _"_ _Thank you."_

"I mean it. I don't even… I can't even start with you right now."

 _"_ _Then please refrain from attempting. I'm hanging up now anyway."_

"Of course you are. Okay, I'll let you go –"

 _"_ _Let me?"_

"- but only because you're promising to tell me absolutely everything when you get back. And to keep me updated. Make sure to call me at least every three days."

 _"_ _I don't remember promising this."_

"Yes, because you probably had your head in the clouds thinking about –"

 _"_ _Again, please refrain. I'm really going now."_

"Yeah, yeah. Go away, you prat. I can't stand to listen to you anymore anyway."

 _"_ _Thank you. Your fondness pervades even your criticism."_

"Shut up."

Draco hung up with only the barest chuckle chasing his words, leaving Pansy staring down at the earpiece in the full throes of a smirk. She shook her head, barely registering when Blaise reappeared behind her from where she'd elbowed him away and hooked his chin over her shoulder.

"You done?" he asked almost too eagerly. "Does this mean I can call him now?"

Pansy snorted, still staring at the phone. "Blaise, if you actually manage to get onto him in the state he's in, you're a better man than I."

"Never," Blaise said, and Pansy's sidelong glance saw him grinning toothily.

"He's so far gone," Pansy said, shaking her head again.

Blaise cocked his head. "Wasn't he always?"

When Pansy thought about it, she supposed Blaise was exactly right.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: The last chapter! Finally! I'm so sorry for the immensely long wait to put this one out. Suffice it to say I have reasons, but I'll keep them to myself. Believe it or not, this was always intended to be the last chapter; I'm sorry if it feels inconclusive, but I kind of like the possibility of some things not quite resolved.  
Enjoy the chapter, and hope to see you next time!

* * *

 **Chapter 19**

 _THE MYSTERY OF HARRY POTTER_

 _For twelve months, the question 'what became of Harry Potter?' has embraced the Wizarding world. Following the release of the infamous articles The Real Life of Harry Potter, the execution of which remains one of the most controversial in modern media, Potter was last seen in the company of his manager and attendant, Dorothea Picard and Von el Margot._

 _"_ _Harry's whereabouts are his business and no one else's," Picard states when questioned. "If he chooses to tell the world then you'll know."_

 _El Margot remains just as tight lipped on the matter, while Potter's friends claim…_

"You know, I feel kind of bad. I didn't mean for them to all bear the brunt of it like this."

At Draco's distracted hum, Harry glanced up from the _Daily Prophet_ , turning towards him. Rather than reading over Harry's shoulder as he had been moments before, Draco was staring to their left down the road, eyeing a cluster of onlookers that bore frowns and narrowed eyes. Eyes that widened as Harry glanced their way before they crowding inward upon one another, heads ducking and whispering loud enough that Harry swore ducked he could hear from half a street away.

The city was a riot of crowded roads and crowded footpaths. Of beeping horns, the puttering of engines, the shouts of pedestrians and the laughter of a clutch of school children idling around a bus stop. The street in the centre of London, diverging into a network of branching roads, was the hub of the city. It was vibrant and loud and, compared to so many vastly different cities and quaint little townships that Harry had encountered in the past months, it was almost a shock. A fondly exasperating shock.

Along that road, newsstands cropped up more frequently than was logically necessary, but each one made their business in droves of exchanged coins and pilfered papers. The Wizarding newsstand was about the only one of its kind outside of Diagon Alley. Harry had paused alongside it at the sight of the _Daily Prophet_ , glaringly obvious at the front of the stand but likely magically hidden from wandering Muggle eyes. It was a little hard not to notice when his own face was staring back at him; after seeing little enough of his published pictures of late, the picture was a shock in itself. That there was an actual article of him…

The world really did need to move on. Harry's absence in the past year more than proved that they were capable of surviving without him.

At the sight of the crowd of whispering onlookers, however, a growing crowd that rapidly began pointing and exclaiming aloud more than whispering, Harry knew his anonymous return to London rapidly dissolve before the weight of recognition. Slipping the newspaper back onto its stand, he leaned towards where Draco had very deliberately planted himself between him and the crowd.

"Let's go," he murmured, his own voice barely audible over the particularly loud honk of a passing car. "There's an Apparition point only a couple of blocks away we can head to."

Draco turned towards him, mouth opening to reply, but any words he might have uttered were overridden by the newsstand attendant overrode his with an unnecessarily loud exclamation. "Hey! Hey, you – aren't you Harry Potter?"

Harry glanced towards him, unconsciously nudging his glasses a little higher up his nose but otherwise barely acknowledging the urge to cringe away from being noticed. The man had a finger pointed at him, his brow furrowed, only for his jaw to flop limply a moment later as the entire façade slackened. "You are! You are, you're – and you," he switched his finger towards Draco, "Draco soddin' Malfoy, aren't you? Well, I'll be damned."

"You will be," Draco said flatly.

The shop attendant barely seemed to hear him. His finger switched back to Harry, his eyes drawn alongside it. "You – you up and disappeared," he said. "You just vanished, just like that, and no one knew –"

"I did," Harry said, pasting a smile on his face. "But I'm back now, so…" He shrugged. There was no reason to hide it. Maybe Dot might have wanted to ride upon the mania of it, but Harry didn't really care. If one thing had changed over the past year it was his resignation to pandering to the media. Being out of the limelight had certainly adjusted his outlook to it.

Liberation was an addictive pursuit.

The attendant continued. He said something else, demanded something more, but Harry didn't listen. Slipping his hand into Draco's, he turned and tugged him after him as he wove through the bustling morning crowd of businessmen and women, school children, and the lucky souls who weren't yet afflicted by work that day. Draco followed after him, though his frown and defined pout suggested he wasn't happy about the encounter.

London hadn't changed. Not really. And yet, as Harry trekked the distance through the streets, it felt different. He wasn't oblivious enough to overlook the reason for that; he knew he'd changed since he'd last set foot in the city, for better or worse. It no longer seemed quite so big as it once had. Not quite so overwhelmingly important, either.

The papers ultimately didn't matter, because today's paper was tomorrow's kindling. The whispers and the gossip could and often did sting, but the sting wasn't lasting, and Harry could move past it. The demands made, the rules laid, the obligations heaped upon him – all of it was attended to only as much as Harry desired. He'd never really considered turning a blind eye to those requests before, but now…

Liberation really was addictive. Not only to Harry, either. He didn't have to look far to see what such freedom from a choking leash could enable. Only to the hand clasped in his own, in fact.

Draco glared at a man talking on his phone as he bumped into his shoulder, watching him retreat before muttering about idiots who didn't look where they were going. As they paused at a crossing, he carded a gloved hand through his hair and ruffling it artfully before straightening and setting his shoulders with the kind of cool confidence that he'd had as a child but not quite so much in later years. Crossing the road, passing down the adjacent street, following in step with Harry as Harry led the way through their fellow pedestrians, Draco didn't keep his eyes lowered. He didn't duck from a woman who paused mid-step, the name 'Malfoy' visibly forming on her lips. He was… different. More the boy he'd once been than he'd truly been in years.

Except that when he caught Harry watching him sidelong, he flashed him a smile that was warm, familiar, and overflowing with affection that Harry was all too familiar with these days. Familiar to the point of expecting it from a glance, from a hand squeezed, a kiss on the cheek or the way Draco would tip his head backwards when Harry walked behind him, grazing his hand through the slight kinks of curls in his blond hair.

Draco was different but still the same, and in Harry's opinion, it was the best version of himself that he'd ever been. He could only hope that he'd changed half as perfectly.

"To Dot's?" Draco said as they turned a final corner to a street as identical to those around it as any other.

Harry nodded, tugging Draco after him as he headed towards the little niche scooped like a divot out of the side of an office building. It was unremarkable to the passing glance, but when Harry stepped into the shadow of it, he felt magic ripple over his skin and the concealing effect of a Disillusionment Charm settle. A moment later and he was drawing Draco alongside him into a spin of Apparition.

The building of _Estrallas en Ascenso_ was unchanged from when Harry had last seen it. He didn't know if he'd expected it to be different, didn't know how it would have possibly changed, but somehow he was surprised. With all that had happened, even in just a year, he felt like the world should have changed alongside himself.

But it was the same. Just the same. As surprising as that was, it was a little comforting at the same time.

Harry climbed the short flight of stairs to the door, still pulling Draco after him, and didn't bother to press the buzzer and announce his arrival. It wasn't as though he had an appointment, and even if months away did make him feel a little like an intruder when he stepped into the workplace, his arrival was less of a work-related visit than it could have been. Than it probably should have been, too.

The foyer was empty, as it so often was. Empty but for the wide desk with its familiar wheelie chair-bound receptionist seated behind it. Even as Harry stepped through the door, Draco muttering something about 'having a doorbell for a reason', she had her head bowed and hand whizzing across the open appointment diary, ticking and crossing and notating.

"Good morning," she said, glancing up. "How can I -?"

Her hand paused mid word as she caught sight of Harry. Her eyes widened, and the pen dropped from her fingers as she abruptly jerked to her feet. "Harry! Goodness, is that – ? Is it really -?"

Harry smiled, raising a hand in a vague wave. Meghan beamed back at him, skirting around her desk and trotting across the room in her short heels – only to stutter to a stop when she evidently realised who stood alongside him.

"And… Malfoy?" Meghan blinked, eyes still wide, her mouth opening and closing like a hand-held puppet. Her gaze flickered between Harry and Draco, then back again in mounting bemusement.

Harry squeezed Draco's hand before adjusting his arm so it hooked into the crook of Draco's elbow instead. His smile widened as he glanced up at Draco, caught his eye and the pointedly raised eyebrow that very clearly asked "so this is how you want to do this?" before turning back to Meghan. He didn't miss that she'd dropped her gaze to stare at their linked arms with eyes only widening further.

Not that he cared. He probably would have a couple of years ago, even only one year ago, but now? Not anymore. Not really. There were more important things to care about.

"I was hoping to see Dot, actually," Harry said, sparing a glance for the hallway leading from the reception. The familiar hallway that he'd taken himself down without needing to ask so many times before but now felt almost like foreign territory. "Is she free at all?"

"Oh – oh, Dot?" Meghan visibly shook herself, wrenching her gaze Harry and Draco's arms. A moment of staring passed before she shook herself again, and just like that, the professional efficiency she so often exhibited reinstated itself. Turning on her heel, she trotted back towards her desk and flipped through the diary. "Won't be a moment."

Harry hadn't known what he'd been expecting. Maybe a part of him had been concerned – about what _Estallas_ and its employees would think, about what Dot would say, about how the world would view him and his relationship with Draco. But the larger part found that, when he really considered it, he didn't care. He didn't care that the Wizarding world would be horrified that Harry had taken up with Draco Malfoy of all people, especially after the outrage arising from his position as Harry's photographer the previous year. He didn't care either that the rampant homophobia in the Muggle world would instantly reflect badly upon him, crippling his job opportunities and the positivity that lingered from before he'd 'disappeared'.

Harry would have cared. Once, he would have cared a whole lot. It was almost funny how a whole year of sightseeing and peering into the lives of those so vastly different to his own could change that. Now, glancing at Draco sidelong where he stood in almost bored company, tracing his eyes over the lines of his face, his blond hair bleached to nearly white from their most recent visit to the Greek Islands on the way back to Britain, Harry didn't care. There were more important things, after all.

"She's had a lot less on her plate these days since you've been gone," Meghan said, recapturing Harry's attention. "She's picked up a few other pet projects, but both of the models are…" She trailed off as she scanned the page. She nodded decisively a second later, glancing back up to Harry. "She's got an opening until nine-thirty. Shall I…?"

Pointing at the phone on her desk, Meghan trailed off once more. Harry shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said. He grinned. "I'll surprise her."

Meghan stared at him for a beat before chuckling. "Surprise Dorothea? Good luck with that, Harry. She'll chew you up and spit you out before ever showing it."

Harry nodded, shrugged, and started towards the hallway, his hand instinctively slipping into Draco's to pull him along behind him once more. He half expected Dot to 'chew him out' anyway. Why not give her a proper reason to?

Blessedly, Harry and Draco didn't bump into any more of the staff before they reached Dot's door. Harry knew it would happen eventually, that there would be surprise and possibly gushing excitement. That there would most likely reprimand and even the possibility of being fired on the table. But that could all be dealt with later. He and Draco had arrived back in London two days before, but they had barely stepped outside since. Post-holiday weariness had struck Harry more intensely than he'd anticipated.

But they were back, and that meant there would be outcry. Good or bad – though most likely bad – it would have to be dealt with. Given that Harry had both faith in Dot and evidence that she and the rest of the few others who had known his whereabouts had remained silent on the matter, he would need to come out and explain himself.

He'd expected that, but it didn't mean he didn't still have a whole lot of planning to do.

Knocking on Dot's door, Harry paused long enough to hear Dot's murmured query from within. Smiling to himself – how long had it been exactly since he'd seen her? – he opened the door and led the way inside.

Familiar bookshelves. Familiar filing cabinets and a familiar desk. Nothing had changed in Harry's absence and least of all the woman sitting behind the desk, a phone pressed to her ear and her hand curled in a death grip around the cord as Harry had long ago noticed she habitually did.

Dot was still rail-thin. She still wore her hair in its topknot, severely tight. Her rectangular glasses, the high neck of her modest dress, the short, filed lines of her fingernails – it was all the same. Even the way she glanced towards the door with a frown already forming at the interruption to her phone conversation was so typically Dot.

"- don't care for such exchanges, Herbert, so long as…" Her words died as her gaze locked onto Harry. "I'll call you back," she said abruptly and, without waiting for a reply, slapped the phone down in its cradle.

Dot was on her feet and rounding her desk in an instant. She had always been short, but Harry had almost forgotten just how diminutive she was. Not that it really affected her presence; the way she planted herself before him, eyeing him up and down, held the weight of someone three times her size.

"Hi, Dorothea," Harry said, smiling with real fondness.

For a long pause, Dot didn't speak. Her expression was flat, her stare unwavering, and her lips slightly downturned. When she eventually met Harry's gaze once more, nothing but the slightest twitch of her eyebrow shifted in her flat expression.

"I do hope you didn't happen upon any reporters or photographers on your way here," she said. "Not before you've been properly cleaned up."

It was as much of a welcome as Harry had expected, and he couldn't help but grin. His good-humour felt unshakable that day. "No," he said simply before raising his and Draco's held hand. "Just the one."

"Yes, I can see that." Dot eyed Draco with the same blunt assessment she'd trained upon Harry. Draco, to his credit, didn't even twitch. "I'd thought so, from your calls. I take it I don't need to tell you both the mess that will inevitably erupt from whatever is going on between the two of you?

 _Whatever is going on._ How insufficient an explanation for what existed between Harry and Draco. Turning towards him, Harry met Draco's eyes and tipped his head slightly in a silent question. Not that it really needed to be asked at all. 'Being prepared for that inevitability' was something Harry thought he'd been gradually perfecting for months. Years, perhaps. Maybe even before he'd first kissed Draco on a cobbled street in Lucerne.

Harry didn't need to ask, and certainly not aloud. Draco's lips tugged briefly to the side before he spoke, as much to Harry as to Dot. "It won't be a problem. Not to us. It's nothing we can't handle." He squeezed Harry's hand slightly, warmly, before adding a dry, "besides, I'm not so easily cowed as to not fight for what I want."

Harry tucked his chin but didn't think it did much to hide his smile. Draco had been defiant his whole life; it was just that his defiance had been forced to bend before it broke when the world and everyone in it turned against him. That didn't mean it had disappeared. Not in the least. Rather, Harry thought it more appropriate to consider that it had been biding its time for the right moment to rear its head once more.

Draco was doing a whole lot of rearing of late. Harry hadn't realised he'd actually missed that boyish overconfidence until it resurfaced in the best possible way.

Whatever Dot heard in Draco's words seemed to satisfy her. Nodding shortly, she shifted her attention back to Harry. She seemed to almost struggle with words for a moment before her lips thinned and she turned back to her desk. "Alright. It's settled then. Welcome back, I suppose."

 _That_ was as close to a real welcome as Dot ever came. Begrudging, almost chiding, but genuine nonetheless. Harry had never had the sort of relationship with Dot that it would be allowed, but he abruptly felt the need to hug her.

Maybe he was just getting spoiled. For all of his ramrod stoicism at work, Draco had proved to be a very proficient hugger.

"Then we'll dive right into it," Dot continued, planting herself behind her desk with her hands laid flatly on top of it. "I've got a consultation in less than an hour but give it to me now anyway. The bare bones of what you've got planned and what you've come up with. Tell me how you want to handle this and I'll see what I can do."

It was so like Dot. Efficient, more than capable of setting aside any personal feelings for the most pressing matters. Harry had mentioned nearly three weeks before in a sporadic phone call that he and Draco were considering making their way home, but it had been far from definite. Yet despite that spontaneity, Dot had risen to the play as she always did.

People had asked Harry countless times in the past why he stayed with _Estallas_ when he'd become something so much bigger than the small agency. He didn't have to look any further than Dot.

In short order, Harry found himself in one of the two seats across from Dot's desk, Draco at his side and sitting as casually yet notably attentive as only he could quite pull off, and outlining his intentions. Dot listened with close-lipped consideration, nodding slightly at times, frowning at others, but otherwise holding her tongue until he finished his explanation.

"Hm," was all she replied at first.

"Exactly my response," Draco said, the top foot of his crossed legs shifting slightly to poke Harry in the knee. "See? I'm not alone in my scepticism."

Harry rolled his eyes. "There's nothing wrong with my ideas."

"That's a narrow-minded way of looking at it," Draco muttered.

"Just because I'm deciding to take a stance in the support of something other than what you'd have preferred –"

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the direction of your decision. Just that you should focus on issues closer to home first if you wanted to publicly kick up a fuss."

"I'm not kicking up a fuss. I'm aiming to remain totally unbiased and informative."

Draco snorted, dropping his elbow onto the arm of his chair and his chin onto the top of his knuckles. "Right. Informative. If you were really informative, you'd go the obvious direction."

"Being?" Dot asked, sliding into their exchange and momentarily distracting Harry.

"The rampant sexual assault in the modelling industry, for one," Draco said almost offhandedly. He didn't seem to notice Dot's eyebrows inch upwards, or if he did he disregarded it. "Or the poor working conditions. Or the absolutely ridiculous requirements you have to follow in order to 'maintain peak condition' –"

"Every job has its requirements, Draco," Harry said, sighing with what he would admit was a little bit dramatic. How many times had they had this conversation?

"You're allowed to take a break sometimes," Draco said, jabbing a finger in his direction.

"I do. I did."

"Getting up at five in the morning to go for a run on a fucking beach in Hawaii –"

"Is reasonable."

"- or dragging me along to that goddamn yoga retreat –"

"It was good, and you know it was."

"I can still feel my stomach muscles protesting," Draco grumbled. "And that's saying nothing of the fact that you still never have more than three drinks when we go out because of the calories."

Harry shrugged. None of Draco's accusations were new. It was all water off a duck's back at this point. "You have your priorities when it comes to work. I have mine."

"Yes, and I also have priorities when it comes to your work," Draco said. He turned deliberately in Dot's direction, fixing her with a faintly accusing glance. "Like making sure your photographers aren't fucking rapists."

"Draco, shut the hell up," Harry said with another sigh. Despite what Harry might think of his questionable past relationships, he didn't really expect Draco to drop the subject. His stubbornness had definitely returned with his confidence, and it would be easier in the long run to simply get the matter sorted. Harry wasn't sure just how seriously damaged Sammy would walk out of any kind of confrontation that might arise, but he'd rather he could still actually walk out of it at all.

"Talk to me later," Dot said, ignoring Harry entirely and pointing her pen at Draco. "I'm not utterly oblivious, but even so."

Draco nodded shortly. _Too right you will,_ Harry heard, even if Draco didn't say it aloud.

"Can we move along, please?" Harry asked, glancing between the both of them before pointedly eyeing the clock. "What else do you need to know, Dot? What I'm trying for – it's feasible, isn't it?"

"Taking such a vocal stance on controversial subjects?" Dot glanced down at the page of notes she'd been taking throughout their conversation. She grunted before nodding in a way that was more considering than agreeing. "Considering the subjects at hand, I think the majority of exposure articles will have to be kept from the Muggle world but… I'll work on it. You'll have to scrub up your public face, too – and scrub up everything else, for that matter – but I don't think it will be impossible."

Harry smiled, wide and heartfelt. He couldn't help himself. He flashed a glance towards Draco, who rolled his eyes but couldn't quite keep his own smile from surfacing. It was a wonderful smile, that slight, almost reluctant curve of his lips, and Harry didn't think he'd ever get tired of seeing it.

"See?" Harry said. "What did I say? Dot has faith in me."

Draco shook his head, his smile twitching a little wider. "You and your bloody hero complex."

"I don't see what my idea has to do with that."

"Oh no, of course not. You're only hoping to save the world one step at a time."

Harry shrugged. Draco wasn't wrong in his assessment of Harry's intentions. After all, Harry might want to live for himself a little more, a fact that the joys of travel had certainly nourished within him, but he couldn't change who he was. Not really. He would just do it his own way this time, how and where he wanted.

"Merlin help us all," Dot muttered, jotting down a final note on the page before her. Then she swept it to the side, placed her pen precisely on the desk beside it, and folded her hands before her. "Alright, then. You've intruded upon my time enough today as it is and it's nearly nine-thirty."

Harry nodded, immediately rising from his seat. "Of course. Thanks, Dot."

Predictably, Dot's eyebrow twitched at the use of her unfavoured nickname. Less predictably, however, she didn't scold him for using it. "I'll call you later this afternoon," she said instead.

"Right."

"Make sure you pick up your phone."

"Don't I always? I have Ginny Weasley as a friend. Her habits sort of wear off on you."

Dot nodded her acceptance before shooing him and Draco both towards the door. "Off with you, then. And make sure you see Von on your way out. He'll be a menace to be in the same building with for the rest of the day if he hears you stopped by and didn't see him."

Harry glanced over his shoulder towards her and couldn't help but laugh. That sounded so typical of Von. He was immediately enthused by the prospect. "I will."

"See if he can fix you up a little, too. I don't like to think of what he'll do when he sees your hair, Harry. Merlin help us all, he'll go on a rampage."

Harry grinned, shrugged, and opened the door, stepping aside to allow Draco to pass before him. "From experience, Dot, Von can make a dress out of a potato sack. I think we'll be fine."

"We can only hope so," Dot muttered. Shaking her head, she glanced at her note paper. "Honestly… why in God's name do you incessantly feel the need to utilise the skills of Pansy Parkinson?"

Draco snorted, dissolving into unrestrained snickers at her words, and Harry wasn't far behind him. "Really, Dot? How could I not?" At Dot's flat glance, he grinned even wider and stepped through the doorway. "Good luck with everything."

"We'll certainly need it," Dot said, a hint of resignation to her tone, but Harry didn't miss the touch of a smile that shadowed across her lips just before he closed the door behind him.

* * *

 **"…** **had the world in uproar about your disappearance. I believe that many considered you were simply lying low, but now you're telling me that you went travelling practically everywhere?"**

"Just about."

 **"** **For an entire year you simply travelled?"**

"Yeah, pretty much. I've never travelled before, so now seemed as good a time as any."

 **"** **Indeed. Did you have a favourite location? You seemed to mention barely a glimpse into any for particularly long in your once-over."**

"A favourite? God, I don't think so. There were so many places, and all of them incredible for different reasons."

 **"** **Then is there a standout?"**

"Just one?"

 **"** **The most standout."**

"Well… I guess one of the most different simply because there weren't really people there was when we hopped from Argentina to Antarctica, which was bloody freezing but –"

 **"** **Sorry, Antarctica?"**

"Yeah. Didn't I say before?"

 **"** **No. We must have brushed over that part."**

"Oh. Well, yeah, Antarctica was pretty different. We went for a trip around the Peninsular, and it definitely pays to be a wizard 'cause there would have been so much we would have missed if we hadn't Apparated."

 **"** **Yes, I can imagine. But you're back now? Is it only briefly, or…?"**

"No, not briefly. I'm not saying that more travel in the future isn't on the table, because I'd love it to be, but sticking around for a while seems like the best option."

 **"** **I see. And your plans entailed with 'sticking around'? You'll return to modelling, won't you?"**

"Yeah. Yeah, probably. I'd like to branch out a bit though, you know? Work for a cause and all that. The opportunities are really endless, so I can basically head in whatever direction I want to."

 **"** **And you've decided upon a direction?"**

"Well, I wouldn't say decided. That's a bit of a final word."

 **"** **But you've considered? May I ask for specifics?"**

"I want to pursue what feels important to me. That might be selfish of me, but…"

 **"** **Selfish, or mutually beneficial?"**

"Maybe a bit of both? Really, what I'd like to do is step out of the fashion industry a little and touch on some issues that I feel have been seriously overlooked. If I can help people become more aware of certain issues simply by speaking about them then I want to stand for what I feel is important."

 **"** **Such as?"**

"Such as the impact of the war, and the grimy parts that no one likes to look at, let alone talk about. Such as the fact that families of Death Eaters are still being unjustly accused, convicted, and shunned even years after when we should – and do – know better."

 **"** **That's…"**

"I want to put out there the real story of Tom Riddle and how he got to be who he was. It was a problem, a real problem of both the Wizarding world and the Muggle one, that a kid was mistreated and grew into something that was barely human because of neglect, and misjudgement, and sometimes outright cruelty. I'm not saying that's the only reason he did what he did, but it was a big part of it."

 **"You seem to know a fair bit on the subject."**

"Not a lot, but more than most. Kids, especially kids of Muggle or magic-hating families, face huge challenges every day simply because of who they are. We can't have another Tom Riddle, and I want to do my best to make people aware of that and to stand up for the kids – for the people – who can't defend themselves."

 **"** **You seem very committed."**

"I'm passionate about that. I've realised that much after really thinking about it. It's what I want to do, and I have people I care about who are being impacted, so…"

 **"** **Any names in particular?"**

"Are you by any chance prying, Pansy?"

 **"** **Of course, Harry. It's my job, after all."**

"I suppose it is."

 **"So? Names?"**

"You mean other than my fiancé and the people that he cares about in turn? Yeah, I'd say those are pretty influential contributors."

 **"** **Do I mean…? Wait, so – wait, what?"**

"It extends beyond that, of course. The families impacted by the war, the kids who lost their parents, and my godson for starters, but also kids who have to struggle through domestic abuse and neglect, because I feel like they get little enough –"

 **"** **Wait, wait, wait. Did you just say…?"**

"Did I say what?"

 **"** **Your fiancé, you – you mean you… Draco, you son of a bitch."**

"Oh. Yes, that."

 **"** **Son of a bitch."**

"I take it he didn't tell you?"

 **"** **Draco, get your arse over here you –"**

"That's a no, then."

 **"** **Shut up for a second, Harry. You – Draco, you –"**

"This doesn't seem like very standard interview procedure…"

 **"** **Draco. Draco! I can see you smirking at me from behind your camera, you bastard!"**

 _"_ _Yes, Pansy, dear, very observant of you."_

 **"** **You fucking piece of shit, I can't believe you didn't tell me!"**

 _"_ _Is it really any of your business?"_

 **"** **Bastard! You bastard, how could you not -?"**

"I don't know if she can say this on camera."

 _"_ _I assure you, Pansy, it's none of your business if I –"_

 **"** **Shut up. Just – shut up, the both of you. My god."**

"Are you alright?"

 **"** **Am I all -? God. Un. Fucking. Believable."**

* * *

"We've only only been back for a few weeks. Don't worry about it; we'll get around to it."

Glancing over his shoulder, Draco took a moment to stare at Harry where he sat in the little alcove seat of the window. Phone pressed to his ear, his knees drawn up before him and fiddling absently with the hem of his slacks, he looked utterly comfortable. Utterly at home.

Which he was, Draco supposed. More at home than he'd been in a whole year.

"I don't mind," Harry said. "Dinner, maybe? I can pick something up if you'd like and drop by."

Draco turned back to the wall he was working on. He glanced up at the mosaic spread he'd mounted already, each picture-fragment precisely positioned. They all had their place, after all. It wouldn't do to stick any old picture anywhere willy-nilly.

"Well, Hermione said she's still working on Saturdays when I talked to her earlier, so… Sunday, then?"

Sparing a glance down at the stack of Polaroids in his hands, Draco flicked through them briefly before pausing upon one in particular. Costa Rica had been an experience, and beautiful at that, but the part that stood out to Draco the most was the way Harry had thrown a glance over his shoulder, grinning so widely he seemed to shine like his own personal sun. That picture, the spray of the waterfall out of view but his hair bedraggled, clothes sodden, and caught in pure joy, was one of Draco's favourite pictures.

Front and centre would make a very good spot for it. Definitely. Polaroids weren't Draco's preference once upon a time, but the sheer spontaneity of that image had certainly changed his opinion.

"Yeah, that works for me. Hold on a second, I'll just ask Draco. Draco?"

Holding the picture up against the space of white wall, Draco pinned it with his thumb, adjusted it, and moved it slightly to the left. "Hm?"

"I'm having Ron, Hermione, and Ginny around on Sunday. Did you want to be here for it?"

Swallowing a sigh that was only half genuine, Draco glanced over his shoulder once more. Harry had lowered his phone from his ear, pressing the speaker to his chest, and regarded Draco with his head tipped and expression open and questioning. With his long hair half falling from its tie, his glasses on, the neck of his baggy t-shirt pulled to the side, he looked incredibly young. Even more nostalgic still for the accidental parting of his fringe around his scar, left unveiled and open as he'd taken to doing more and more often of late.

Draco couldn't stop the tingle of warmth that swept through him at the sight. Would he ever not be affected? Would the feeling ever lessen? Draco didn't know. He didn't think so. He doubted he'd ever want it to.

Feigning nonchalance, Draco shrugged. He glanced briefly down at the stack of pictures in his hands. "That depends."

"On?" Harry asked, the beginnings of a smile touching his lips.

"On whether I can realistically avoid being in the same room with your friends for the rest of our lives."

Harry snorted, shaking his head, but his smile grew wider. "You're going to have to get over this eventually."

"Oh, I am, am I?"

"Yes, you are. Besides, I'm on good terms with Pansy, so –"

"Pansy's one person."

Harry snorted again. "Don't let her hear you say that. She's worth at least three given how terrifying she is."

Draco considered for a moment before nodding obligingly. That much was true. Very true. When he really thought about it, he'd much rather face Harry's trio of friends than an opponent like Pansy, especially since she'd been on his back ever since their first interview session for the new series the day before. But still…

Letting his sigh out in a dramatic gush this time, Draco turned back to the wall. His wall, as he'd decided it was, and as Harry had all but verbally agreed to. "If I must," he said.

Harry laughed behind him, and even if Draco really had objected to the inevitable meeting, that simple outburst of amusement would have been enough to soothe his disgruntlement. Draco would do just about anything to make Harry laugh.

"Yeah, that's fine," Harry said, returning to the conversation on his phone. "Draco says he's fine with it. Because he'll be here. Well, because it's his apartment too now. No, I told you, he's already got his bond back from his landlord, so he's…"

Only half listening to what appeared to be Harry's attempt to break the news to Ron, Draco returned to flicking through his pictures. A handful from South Africa. The trip to Brazil right in time for the Mardi Gras. The Billiwig keepers they'd visited in Australia with the stupid protective gear they'd been forced to wear. With each glimpse of the pictures, Draco was drawn back to the highs and lows of their travels and found himself smiling in spite of the disgruntlement he was supposed to be feeling.

Travelling with Harry had been an experience as close to perfect as possible. So close, and that even accounted for their stopover in Hawaii that had unexpectedly resulted in one of the biggest arguments they'd ever had. A day of stalemated silence that followed had invariably been the lowest point of the entire year, but afterwards? Making up and struggling through an apology, and then resolving to never, ever tempt fate again by challenging one another to a flirt-off with strangers at a club had bridged the momentary rift almost immediately.

But in spite of the wonders experienced, the isolation of one another's company only sporadically interrupted by friendly strangers, it was good to be back. Good to be in England. Good to be on home ground, even if Draco knew it was only a matter of time before his past caught up with him again and the world demanded Harry resume his place as their personal poster child. It didn't seem quite so daunting this time around. Not when Draco had someone he was properly standing alongside this time.

Which he was. Would be. Would hopefully be for a long, long time. Cancelling his lease was the first step in sealing that deal, and though an unexpected twinge of sadness had welled within Draco as he'd handed over the keys to his old flat, the doors that opened as the others closed were worth the pain a hundred times over.

Besides, Harry's apartment was beautiful. And big. And far cleaner than Draco's, which was something Draco had learned was more a product of Harry's unexpected cleanliness than the Spartan, open-plan layout of the living space.

"Yeah, okay. Alright, then. Yeah, that sounds good. I'll catch you later."

The sound of Harry ending his phone call caught the half of Draco's attention he'd reserved for absent thought as the other half concentrated upon his mosaic wall of pictures. He heard as Harry rose from his alcove, crossed the room in a nearly silent shuffle of steps, and pulled a chair out from the dining table just behind him. He settled himself, fidgeted for a moment, but fell quiet as Draco held up another picture against the wall, positioning it just so.

For a moment. there was nothing but comfortable silence permeating the room. It was a silence that hadn't always been so easy. It hadn't always been just as precious as exchanged words or gentle kisses. Draco had learned a lot in a single year, however, and the value of comfortable silence was one of them.

Except that Harry interrupted it after an extended pause. He hummed an approving sound before speaking. "I like it."

Draco smiled to himself but didn't turn. "Of course you do," he said, edging back a step and drawing his gaze across the dozens of pictures he'd already affixed to the wall. "I'm the one who's creating it."

"Your humility is astounding," Harry said with a laugh.

"I'm the epitome of modesty. Haven't you heard?"

"Well, I've definitely seen." Another pause settled between them as Draco adjusted the position of a picture slightly. New York, right under the ball in the mania of New Year's Eve in Times' square. The memory fizzled to the surface in Draco's mind alongside a fierce, hungry kiss as they welcomed the next year.

"I've noticed," Harry said after another moment, "that there appears to be a pretty distinct lack of pictures of you."

Draco folded his lips to hide a smirk. He shrugged, glancing down at the stack of pictures folded like a deck of cards in his hands. "You're the model of the two of us."

"Which I've told you is a pity for the modelling world. You should join me sometime."

"I prefer being on the other side of the camera."

"Which is pretty obvious too. Still, I think I could help manage to scratch at the surface of our issue a little bit."

Glancing over his shoulder once more, Draco turned towards Harry. He was seated much as he had been in the alcove, his knees drawn up before him and propped against the table. Except that instead of his phone in his hands, he'd picked up Draco's favourite camera from the table.

Draco didn't tell him to put it down. Once upon a time, he might have. Once, the thought of someone touching his things would have raised his hackles and set his teeth on edge. Maybe it still would have if it were anyone else, but this was Harry. Draco was fairly sure that he'd happily share just about anything with Harry, especially when the simple act of holding Draco's camera drew such a contented little smile on his face.

"Just because you look good through a camera lens doesn't mean you know how to use one yourself," Draco said, just as he had a number of times before. After all, it was hardly the first time Harry had picked up Draco's camera. He'd even plucked it directly from Draco's hands a number of times.

Harry's smile widened a little, though he didn't raise his gaze. "Maybe not. But there's a whole lot of wall space, and I'm happy to learn."

Lifting the camera before him, Harry cocked his head, raised an eyebrow, and deliberately snapped a picture in Draco's direction. Draco didn't protest. Once, he might have, and even had on a number of occasion – he was a photographer, not the one to be photographed – but not anymore. Not when the idea of his own picture pinned alongside Harry's presented such a favourable image.

When Harry lowered the camera, he met Draco's watchful gaze. The expression he wore, so calmly content, so quietly happy, wasn't that of the Harry Draco had known from in childhood. He wasn't even the Harry who'd fought in the war, or the worn, world-wearing Harry he'd encountered years later in the glamourous throes of a modelling career.

This was Draco's Harry. His Harry that the world didn't see, with his messy hair and glasses, his scar showing and his oversized clothes that somehow actually looked good on him, his cheeks still a little flushed from sleep despite rising nearly an hour before. Draco's Harry wasn't as sleek and groomed as a model, but he was perfect in every other way. Definitely perfect enough for Draco's lens. His fingers itched to reach for his camera.

"Do you think you've taken it yet?"

Draco blinked back from his distraction. "Taken what?" he asked, absently flicking the stack of pictures in his hands.

"The perfect picture," Harry said, almost as though he'd read the direction of Draco's thoughts. He tipped his chin in the direction of the wall, fingers tapping along the camera in his hands. "You told me months ago that looking for it was what maintained your passion photography. So, have you taken it yet? Am I going to get the chance to see it on our wall?"

Draco cast a glance over his shoulder. Their wall. The wall for both of them, of both of them. Gaze drifting over the images – mostly of Harry, some few of himself, and a scattering of them both when Draco had charmed the camera to take it of them – Draco smiled.

Turning back towards Harry, he crossed the room to the table. He placed the stack of pictures on the table, skirting it to the side of Harry's chair and, before Harry could do more than hum a wordless query, he captured his head in a cradling hold and caught his lips in a kiss. Harry was warm, tasted of coffee, and responded instantly with a readiness that wasn't compulsive or simply obliging. It was as wanting in return as Draco's was of him.

"No," Draco murmured, pulling away just far enough that their lips brushed together when he spoke. "But I think I'm closer than I've ever been before."

Harry smiled, and it was a sight far more perfect than any picture Draco had ever seen.

* * *

A/N: It's over! Thank you so much for reading, and thank you especially to those lovely people who left reviews! I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have a second or two. Thanks!


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